


Your Fingerprints Like A Code

by gigantic



Category: Actor RPF, American Actor RPF, Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-07
Updated: 2008-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:34:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 66,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigantic/pseuds/gigantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strangely, this is just how it all starts for Shia and Brendon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Fingerprints Like A Code

**Author's Note:**

> Real life has messed this up prematurely because Shia decided to have a car accident and get arrested under suspicion of DUI in 2008, right after I'd already written it all. It's okay, though, because he's still [mostly amazing](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KiDFbxCvAeQ). Thinking this pairing was a good idea started [here](http://gigantic.livejournal.com/488199.html?thread=4808455#t4808455)[-ish](http://gigantic.livejournal.com/488788.html?thread=4814932#t4814932), continued [here](http://stereomer.livejournal.com/59916.html), and then eventually led to this monstrous nonsense. I owe many thanks to Stereomer for encouraging my healthy obsession, and then Jadzia for always making me explain myself and helping me work out so many details. Elle flailed with me a lot, and Thelionforrreal laid down some superstar magic. Other than the crash shenanigans, some other small liberties have been taken with the timeline, and everything you might think I made up about Shia is probably something he actually talked about in an interview. The title is based on a lyric in Just Jack's "Mourning Morning."

**Prologue**

Brendon hasn't been able to find his shirt for the last fifteen minutes. He knows it has to be around here somewhere, because he started the night with clothing for both his lower _and_ upper body. He's tipsy, but he's not drunk, so searching shouldn't be this difficult. It _isn't_ difficult. He's searching just fine, but his shirt just isn't _here_ , and Brendon feels this is fucking unfair, because Pete's got his shirt back. It's a nice, red shirt too, buttoned down and bright, kind of like --

"Hey, you're wearing my shirt," Brendon says, slapping Pete on the shoulder. He means to be gentler.

"Am I?" Pete says. His eyes go wide as he looks down at his clothes. "Yo, you're right!"

"You must be drunk," Brendon says, patting Pete more softly. Alcohol makes things confusing. Brendon doesn't blame Pete. It could happen to anyone after a game of shots and strip bowling. "I need my shirt, dude. This girl -- that girl," Brendon gestures behind him in sweeping, unspecific way, but he means the one with purple streaks in her hair. "She wants to get out of here, you know? You know."

"Oh! Ohhh," Pete says, shrugging out of Brendon's shirt and giving it back. "Also, I demand yet another rematch sometime. Sometime soon."

"You said that last time!"

"You broke my hand last time! Hey, where's my shirt?"

"Somewhere in here, I don't know," Brendon says, because his brain's already moved on. He needs his shirt, and then he needs to go buy condoms, and then he's totally going to get laid tonight. In the Palms hotel. It's going to happen, and Brendon knows it's going to be awesome.

There are like eight hundred parties still happening after the VMAs have ended. The broadcast is over and done, but nobody's trying to go home yet. He gets sidetracked on his way to find a store, peeking into other people's suites. Backing away from one door, he bumps into someone in the hallway and stumbles.

"Sorry!" Brendon says, before he even sees who it is.

"Whoa, whoa, my bad," the guy says, and Brendon turns to apologize again, seeing that --

"Dude, it's you." Brendon holds out a hand to brace himself and regain his footing. The dude -- crap, his name isn't coming to Brendon fast enough -- seems more amused than ticked off, which is convenient. Lucky. "I saw your movie. I saw _Transformers_ , man, it was intense."

"Thanks," the guy says, and holds out his own hand, "Shia."

 _Shia_. Yes, Shia, that's right. Brendon knew that. He was on Saturday Night Live and did that spoof of The OC that Jon thought was hilarious. Brendon says, "Nice to meet you, Shia. I'm Brendon. I'm kind of wasted."

They shake hands, and Shia's face goes from blithe amusement to questioning. He asks, "Hold on, did you perform tonight? Not on stage, but I think I saw you. They were broadcasting the suites."

"Yeah! Yeah, I sing. I'm in a band, called, uh, Panic at the Disco," Brendon says. "I'm not in Fall Out Boy. That's Patrick. He's good people though. He's in the suite still, I think. Some of us moved the party to the bowling lanes."

"Are you rambling?" Shia asks, smiling. Brendon's glad he finds him so hilarious instead of being pissed that Brendon stepped on his shoes, because they're nice shoes. Shiny. Wait, what was Brendon out here for?

He says, "Oh, fuck, dude, I'm supposed to be doing something. Gotta go."

"In a hurry?" Shia asks.

"This girl wants to do me," Brendon says, and then snorts at himself for using that phrase. And also for saying that out loud to a stranger, but, hey, Shia asked. "Hook up, I mean. I need to, uh -- supplies are important."

Shia laughs and says, "Good job, man. That's lucky. I made the mistake of doing the buddy date. We were here as friends, you know? Now it's just me. She went home."

"And you've had no luck at these parties? There are roughly, like, a shitload of people here," Brendon says, counting on his fingers. A shitload is a lot. More than three hundred, at least.

"I was sitting next to Hayden Panettiere," Shia says. "I wanted to make out, but she's dating someone." He gets in closer to whisper the next part, saying, "I think it's the dude on the show. Milo? I think it's that guy. I overheard part of her cell conversation."

"Isn't he old?" Brendon asks, and he's shouting. Shia flinches, and Brendon has to bring it down a couple notches. "Sorry. I mean, not obscenely old, but you know. She's eighteen. I looked that up on the internet, because I thought she was hot. He's not eighteen."

"Either way: shot down," Shia says, pretending to pull a trigger and then lean sideways. Brendon laughs. That's the most unfortunate thing he's seen all night.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, checks the time, and says, "Dude, okay. The girl I was talking to has probably forgotten about me already. I said I'd be five minutes, and it's been like twenty."

"Yeah, you could have blown it by now," Shia says.

Brendon shakes his head, patting Shia's arm again, and saying, "I'm not worried. Me and you, we can start over. Let's check out some of these rooms. For real, there are a lot of people here."

 

 

**1**

On a Wednesday, Brendon calls Shia and says, "Happy birthday, loser. I bet you thought I forgot."

"Hold on," Shia says, talking loudly like he's overcome with disbelief. "Hold on, do I know you? Who's on my phone?"

"Yeah, yeah, give me a hard time," Brendon says, grinning at the wall across the room.

"This can't possibly be Brendon fucking Urie, who I couldn't even get hold of on his own birthday."

Brendon laughs, saying, "The one and only. Dude, I was drunk that night. I don't know if you know, but I had very recently turned twenty-one. That day! Newly twenty-one."

"So I heard. You know, since I didn't _talk_ to your ass," Shia says.

"Alright, let it go. I'm calling now!" Brendon sits back, relaxing in the lounge and crossing his ankles. "Tell me what's happening with you now, old man. Are you celebrating?"

Brendon really hasn't talked to Shia in nearly two months. They've kept up an easy camaraderie, squeezing in some time to chill on occasion. The tour has kept Brendon busy as usual, and even when he technically has a moment to himself, being on the road is so much like living in a bubble that sometimes he honestly forgets to pick up the phone.

Shia says, "Filming this movie. Did I tell you when that was happening?"

"Is this the _Transformers_ sequel? When did that start?"

"Yeah," Shia says. His voice has dropped back to its normal tone, upbeat but past the hollering in Brendon's ear. "Not that long ago. We're on for a few months, so I'm in the thick of it, right? I haven't hit the first wall yet, so that's good."

" _I've_ hit a wall a couple times," Brendon tells Shia. He picks at his jeans, removing imaginary lint and brushing off his thigh. "We're getting down to the wire, as they say. Our last date is in Anaheim in a few days."

"The big finish?"

"Minus any fireworks," Brendon says.

"So, after Anaheim you get some days off?" Shia asks. Brendon can imagine Shia sitting somewhere with his legs folded underneath him. The last time they spent any time together, Brendon had been amused that Shia always positioned himself the exact same way when he got into serious phone conversations or read anything. Crossed legs, head bent down.

"Not really, man, we have to skip over to Europe," Brendon says, and then adds, "across the pond," in his best British accent. "I'm thinking about going to Disneyland while we're in the area though. I mean, since we'll already be right around the corner."

"Sounds like fun. You like the teacups, I bet."

"Are you mocking me? It's never cool to hate on the teacups," Brendon says. "Especially since, uh, confession time: I also called to ask if you wanted to come. My treat! I'll take you on Mr. Toad's Wild ride for your birthday present."

Shia laughs, saying, "Never say that to me again. That's like the dirtiest shit I've ever heard from you."

"It's definitely not," Brendon says, cracking up more than Shia. "Dude, I didn't even realize. I promise I'm not going to go Chester the Molester on you while we're on a storybook ride."

"As grateful as I am to hear that, I have to ask for a rain check anyway. Film shoot, remember?"

"You're not in LA for that?"

"Nope," Shia says. "We're in D.C. for a while. Bay had us rolling at the Smithsonian the other day, it's insane. We did this crazy Bumblebee scene."

"Aw, fuck. That's -- I'm sad now," Brendon says. He huffs a little, shifting around so that he can sit back in his chair instead of crush his ankle underneath his left thigh. "You're playing with Autobots, and I've got to hang out with Mickey by myself."

"You were pumped about it half a second ago," Shia says. "How many days do you have before Europe? You should come visit me."

"Yeah, right."

"I'm not kidding. Megan had her boyfriend out, and that's not fair, you know? I'm the one who doesn't get to wow somebody by bringing them on set."

"Show off," Brendon says.

"You know it. For real, hop a plane, man."

"Fake invitations are nobody's friend."

"What, do you need me to book your flight or some shit?" Shia asks, voice raising slightly. "Once more with feeling, bro, come out. After California, fly east."

Brendon holds up a hand as if Shia can even appreciate the visual surrender through a telephone line. "Alright, alright. If you insist."

"You better be here," Shia says.

Brendon says, " _You_ worry about picking me up from the airport."

;;

He's a man of his word. Brendon can roll with some spontaneity, so he tells the others that he's flying out for a quick vacation before Europe. There's been a change in his plans, but he'll be back within an appropriate time frame, ready to jet overseas for more shows.

"What's the emergency trip?" Shane asks.

Brendon gets a despicable amount of joy out of saying, "I'm going to hang out on the set of the new _Transformers_. For a few days, that's all."

"Did you enter some contest while we weren't paying attention?" Spencer asks.

"That's it," Ryan says. "Urie, we're cutting your computer privileges. It starts with free sweepstakes, and then next you're buying coke through eBay."

"Do people do that?" Jon asks.

"You're a riot, Ross." Brendon pretends to crack up, jerking his shoulders up and down and opening his mouth wide, soundless. When he straightens his face, he says, "But, no, my presence has been summoned."

"By Optimus Prime himself?" Spencer asks.

Shane says, "Oh, you must have talked to Shia."

Brendon claps his hands together once and points to Shane. "That man is a winner, everybody. Yeah, it was Shia's birthday, and since I can't treat him to something here, I'm going out there."

"So you're getting the present instead of him?" Ryan deadpans, like he can't believe Brendon doesn't see the backwards logic.

Brendon lifts his chin, haughtily saying, "Some people simply enjoy the pleasure of my company."

"If that's how you want to see it," Spencer says, earning a laugh from the room. Brendon announces that they're all jealous. That's all it is, but he has to repeat himself three times, shouting finally, because they're too busy guffawing like they're at all funny.

;;

Lucky for Brendon, Shia's also a man of _his_ word. Brendon shows up in Washington, D.C. with a backpack and a duffle bag, and Shia's already waiting for him when he grabs his luggage from baggage claim. He's loitering, smoking a cigarette right by the trashcan and wearing some tacky, bug-eyed sunglasses. He looks ridiculous.

"Is this your attempt to _divert_ attention?" Brendon asks.

Shia drops his cigarette on the pavement, grounding it out. "You're saying you don't like them? I bought them for you."

"The hell you did," Brendon says. Somehow, that's also code for hello, because Brendon ends up in a haphazard hug, one arm over Shia's shoulder and the other under the opposite arm pit. They're probably the dumbest sight, Shia in his ugly dollar-store sunglasses and Brendon wearing his huge backpack.

When they part, Brendon steals the glasses, asking, "These were like fifty cents, or what?"

"Beats the hell out of me. I found those in Megan's hotel room," Shia says, holding out his hand for Brendon's bag. Brendon doesn't _need_ the extra help, but he's not about to deny someone carrying his loads for him, so he passes the duffle over and slips the shades on his face. "I thought you hated them."

"Nah, they just look better on me," Brendon corrects. Shia pushes him aside, and Brendon snaps out and back again like a yo-yo. "I just landed, and you're abusing me. Stop it and point me to your car."

"That green one by the wall," Shia says. "The hooptie with the hula girl on the dashboard."

Shia's driving a rental. It's not as bad as Shia pretends, a tiny Ford Focus that's only a few years old, it looks like. As they drop Brendon's bags in the backseat, Shia jokes amiably about how, sure, the actors checks for the sequel are cut higher after studio success, but Bay' still funneling most of the budget into effects.

"We all agreed to small contracts," Shia says. "Gotta downsize."

"Says the man who drives a big-ass truck in Los Angeles."

"There, I can afford it. It's a principle thing here."

"At least you got a cute hula girl to go with it." Brendon flicks the toy to make her dance. "So do I get to meet Michael Bay on this trip?"

;;

"Your initiation," Shia says, handing over a bottle no more than ten minutes after they arrive at the hotel. As soon as they get into his room, Brendon gets booze.

He's staying in a nice place but not ritzy. Brendon shouldn't be surprised. He isn't, really, because he knows all about the kind of housing companies provide for artists, and yet some part of Brendon is still having an inner preteen moment, thinking, _but it's Michael Bay. This is Transformers_. The fact that everything isn't larger than life keeps causing cognitive dissonance.

Brendon takes the bottle. "What is this?"

"The label says rum, dude." Shia taps the side of the alcohol. "Although I think there's a handle of whiskey in one of the drawers, if you want that."

Brendon eyes Shia, scoffing. He says, "I guess it's happy hour somewhere, huh?"

"Does it matter on a day off?" Shia asks, but Brendon's already knocking back a shot's worth. "We're pre-gaming for bar golf."

"Bar golf. Like in that movie _The Wedding Date_?" Brendon asks, wiping his mouth with his wrist.

Shia laughs. "I don't know. Are you serious? You're not even wasted yet and you're admitting to chick flicks you've seen?"

Whatever, it was on cable one night. Sometimes Brendon can't fall asleep right away, and hotel HBO talks him under. Plus, the actress who played the sister had been really hot. What he says, though, is, "It's not like hotels get Skinemax, and I don't want to put pay-for porn on the bill. One time I accidentally did that. Completely accidental, I'm not even lying, and the next day everybody thought it was their civic duty to mention, 'So, I heard you ordered porn last night.' Anyway, did you know that movie's about a dude who's a whore? An actual man whore."

The anecdote only makes Shia laugh more. He encourages Brendon to take another shot from the bottle, saying, "Okay, this. This was a good idea. You're hilarious already."

"I'm only trying to say I know a thing or two about bar golf." Brendon caps the bottle and set it on the desk. "How do we start? We don't need to drive, do we?"

"Not at all. Follow me."

They take a walk. The bar around the corner is the first destination. Brendon learns that the two of them aren't the only ones playing either. He gets to meet Megan and Josh Duhamel. Josh fucking Duhamel. Back when Brendon thought that Kate Bosworth was the most mesmerizing thing alive, he saw _Win a Date with Tad Hamilton!_ more than a couple times. One of the production assistants and the first A.D. are there, too, and Megan informs everyone that she's mapped a course. There'll be a lot of walking and a lot of drinking.

Brendon has a great time. He hasn't had an opportunity to really hang out in or around D.C. like this since he spent five weeks cooped up in a one-bedroom with his band and Matt Squire. Back then, they'd spent most of that time recording, Spencer stepping outside to take out the trash or running to the stores for snacks and constantly repeating, "We're in fucking Maryland." The wonder of the experience was different.

By the time they make it to the eleventh bar, Brendon's already fallen down twice. He had two shots beforehand, and now he thinks Shia was trying to sabotage him.

"You gave me a handicap!" he whines. He might be shouting. "I can't even talk."

Everything he says feels like it's running to the right, not quite dribbling from his mouth but getting there. The beginnings of a slur are certainly present. Brendon can already sense how this night's going to end. The word 'projectile' comes to mind.

Shia says, "Suck it the fuck up. We still have seven more."

Brendon taps out after fifteen. He's been drinking beers on tour and getting in quality time with Jon's bong on the road, but marathon drinking gets the best of him. He hasn't had the nerve to drink so much in such a short amount of time since he first started trying to keep up with Academy while his band toured overseas with those guys. There had been a couple nights where Brendon thought he could actually feel his liver hurting as he joined in on their fun, and he'd sworn off binging habits for a while, mainly so that he could make sure his insides wouldn't give up and burst within him.

He's feeling like that now, he and Shia with their arms slung over each other. It's a mutual service, one holding the other upright so that they don't look like the sloppy mess they really are. Brendon feels like shit. Brendon also feels kind of great.

"This has to be a day off for you, right?" Brendon asks. He hopes this isn't a nightly thing. He doesn't know how anyone could function doing this routinely.

"Yeah, this just the welcome wagon, buddy. I have night shoots tomorrow." Shia tries to ruffle Brendon's hair or something, some well-intentioned gesture. It's probably supposed to be friendly, but his waning coordination has him slap Brendon on the skull twice.

"Ow," Brendon says, frowning, and then Shia barks out a laugh.

"Sorry." He pats Brendon's stomach this time, reaching his far hand across their bodies. "So, welcome to D.C., alright?"

"Thanks," Brendon says. He's glad to be present.

;;

The best way to counteract a hangover is to drink, Brendon's heard. He hadn't been too wasted by the time nightfall had come yesterday. Shia had gotten a cot put in his room for Brendon, and Brendon had drooled all over his arm once he finally dozed off, mostly comfortable. His head's a little fuzzy in the morning but not _bad_. He does a shot before he heads out anyway, just to be safe.

"That's your version of safe?" Shia asks. Brendon shrugs.

Naturally, that means that later, the first time he ever gets to say two words to Michael Bay, Brendon's sort of tipsy. The two words that Brendon thinks to say are, "Christ, hi."

Shia thinks it's hilarious that Michael Bay walks up and scares the shit out of Brendon by not signaling that he's just stepped into the hair and makeup trailer, and then by being Michael Bay when Brendon turns around. He's a distinct guy. He's not unkind, but everything he does comes across like he means business. There's a weight to his words. He's commanding, which Brendon figures is necessary, but that shit's startling when he's got alcohol in him.

"Not exactly Christ," Michael says and holds up his cellphone. "I have him on speed dial though, for when I need favors."

"Even though we already have the biggest budget in the world for that," Shia says. "Mike, this is my friend Brendon. He's staying with me for a couple days."

"Nice. Be careful of the explosive rigging." Michael shakes Brendon's hand firmly, and Brendon makes a mental note to stay out of the way, because Michael Bay will apparently blow his ass up. "You're staying out of trouble, right?"

"Yeah, yeah," Brendon says, and those are the second two words that Brendon ever says to Michael Bay. He could be making a more lasting impression. "This is a pit stop before I fly for work at the end of the week. For now, it's all loitering."

"He plans to live off the caterers," Shia says.

"We all do. There's this chili there sometimes. Excellent," Michael says. He's talking about lunch, and yet Brendon half wonders if he should be taking written notes.

Despite taking a moment to recommend his catering truck favorites, Michael does come in for business. He gives Shia a heads up about what they're filming for the day, lays out the evening, and Brendon sits back and absorbs the atmosphere. Once thy start shooting, he can't believe he's getting to witness everything. _Transformers 2_ in the making, wow. He's going to have to remember to brag to Pete about it later.

Brendon also makes good on Shia's claims and hangs out around the catering. They've got a decent selection, and Brendon starts to get hungry around eleven in the evening. He also has a headache by then, probably from the explosions and the fact that he's treated his body poorly for the last twenty-four hours. One of the servers, Kim, happens to have some aspirin in her purse, and she grabs it from inside the their truck and shakes out two pills for Brendon along with some lemonade.

"Thanks," he says.

"No problem." She takes a moment to tuck her bag away again. "What are you in charge of here?"

"Me? Oh, nothing; I'm just an excited bystander," Brendon says, putting the pills on his tongue and washing them down. "Visiting a friend."

"That's a pretty lucky vacation," she says.

"Tell me about it."

Film shoots are not entirely action-packed around the clock, but this is still cooler than going to Disneyland another time. Not that Disneyland isn't fucking awesome, but Brendon got to see the truck used for Optimus Prime up close and personal today. That kind of beats Space Mountain for the millionth time, he has to admit.

He talks to Kim, and then watches them set up for another big scene before the night ends. When Shia finishes, he gathers his stuff and comes over to Brendon if he's ready for round two of bar golf.

"No," Brendon says. "If we could drink half of what I had yesterday, that would be cool."

"Scared already?"

"No, but I love my liver and would like it to stick around for a while," Brendon says, and Shia grins at him, tugging at the neck of his shirt to fix it.

He says, "Fair enough. I don't have another game planned anyway, man, but there's a bar around here that we could hit. It's on me; I'll buy."

"Show me the way," Brendon says happily, because if this is how his few days off are going to be, then he is certainly okay with that. Free drinks, free place to crash. Brendon's not complaining at all.

 

**2**

Reprising their first attempts at getting plastered might not have been the best idea, though, considering his shooting schedule the next day.

For _Indiana Jones_ , Shia learned how to ride a motorcycle, perfected switchblade tricks, and spent months coordinating swords fights but, somehow, it's working with Michael Bay that feels like boot camp. He's found that he likes Michael's balancing act: almost meticulous control over neverending chaos, but being shouted at all day because the director isn't happy with the improv starts to leave anyone feeling drained at the end of each call far enough into filming. They have officially reached far enough, Shia thinks. Although maybe the benders with Brendon the past two nights have contributed to his fatigue. Either way, Shia's ready to fall out on the concrete by the time Michael wraps during the early hours.

Getting out of hair and makeup doesn't take very long, but Shia kills an extra twenty minutes, because he somehow misplaces the pants he wore over from the hotel. He finds them wedged between one of the cushions, and that's how Brendon finds _him_ when he comes to Shia's trailer, standing around in his boxers with a couch cushion raised over his head.

Brendon's laugh comes in aborted bursts, pushing through a lopsided grin as he says, "Is this some kind of ritual thing? Are you aware that you're weird?"

"Are you aware that your laugh makes you sound retarded when you're high? Close the door." Shia brings the cushion down and holding it in his arms. "Where'd you disappear to?"

Brendon steps into the trailer completely, pulling the door to behind himself. He says, "That girl from craft services, man. Kim? They were packing up and she had a one-hitter -- where are your pants?"

Shia points to the part of small couch missing a cushion. "You didn't invite me."

"You usually say you don't want to smoke. Plus, you were filming," Brendon says. He picks up the rolled up pair of pants and hands them over as Shia lets the cushion drop. "What would you do without me around to help you?"

"Right, because you just did _so_ much heavy lifting," Shia says, rolling his eyes, except Brendon ignores all of the sarcasm and nods. Shia chuckles, pushing him aside, and then slips on the jeans while Brendon stuffs the couch cushion back into its place. "I'd be helpless without you."

Brendon flops back onto the couch, lifting his leg onto the back and dangling the other over the edge, toes grazing the floor. He's taking up all the space, limbs sprawled everywhere. Shia has to sit down on the floor in his own trailer to grab his sneakers and tie them.

"You're passing out already?" Shia asks, nudging Brendon's knee with the side of a fist. Brendon jerks his leg and resettles, peeking out at Shia from under the arm across his face.

Brendon asks, "You're not tired?"

"Dude, exhausted," Shia says. He loops the laces of his right shoe and pulls them tight. "But I had a fucking job today. Got thrown around a little bit."

"I watched it. I watched all of it. My eyes are tired from the serious watching I did today," Brendon says. "Plus I just ate my weight in leftover cheese."

"If you get sick in my room -- "

"I hold my cheese really well, don't worry."

Shia shakes his head. He ties his other shoe and uses Brendon's thigh for leverage as he stands, squeezing lightly and saying, "Come on, let's get the fuck out of here."

"Hm?" Brendon lifts his head and looks down to Shia's hand, following his movement as he stand up straight and lets go. Brendon blinks. "Huh -- oh, yeah. I was really on my way out there."

"A beer and a bed, that's all I want," Shia says.

The drivers are a small luxury that Shia's thankful for on nights like these. He and Brendon climb into the van with one of the assistant camera guys, the one whose name Shia can never remember because they've been calling him "CP" since the beginning of the shoot. The first night Brendon was in town, praying he didn't end up puking, Shia had him holding his stomach as he retold the guy's story about cockpunching his roommate.

Right now Brendon's a sack of dead weight. He practically pours himself into the SUV, slumping down in the seat and relinquishes a minimal amount of extra space when Shia climbs in next to him.

Shia says, "Smoking made you lame."

"I didn't even have that much," Brendon mumbles, shifting against the seat to give Shia more room.

"Just enough to make you fall asleep on me."

"No, reloading a one-hitter gets old fast," Brendon says, flinging his hand out and catching Shia's side. Shia grunts a little and grabs Brendon's hand reflexively.

"Ow, dude."

"You didn't feel anything." Brendon yanks his hand from Shia and taps his side again. Shia doesn't have the energy to fend him off again. "Do you still have beer at the hotel or should we stop?"

"I think there's still some," Shia says, staring at the back of CP's head. He's dozing off, Shia can tell, because his head keeps drooping sideways and then bobbing the way it always happens when people catch themselves falling asleep sitting up.

Brendon says, "Good," and yawns. "Beer and a bed. You have the right idea."

;;

Unfortunately, there aren't any more bottles of beer. Shia discovers this when they finally get back to his hotel room. Brendon toes off his sneakers, propped against the bed, and he aims everything he's saying about how Kim kissed him at Shia's back while Shia checks the mini-fridge.

He says, "And at first I thought it was just me. Sometimes pot fucks with my equilibrium, and I feel like I'm leaning, but, no, _she_ \-- she. She was --"

"Aw, fuck me," Shia says, standing up and closing the fridge.

"What?"

"We should have stopped for alcohol."

"Dude," Brendon says, voice lilting, ending on a sigh. "There's a bar downstairs or something, right? We could mosey, man. I just took off my shoes, but I don't need 'em."

"Screw it. I'm over it now," Shia says, mirroring Brendon's tired exhalation. He wipes a hand over his face, more and more pumped about the idea of sleeping, but when he turns around, Brendon's gone from sitting to trying out his starfish impression all over Shia's bedspread. "Yo, your cot -- bed --thing is over here."

"Mphm," Brendon mumbles. "I'm going."

He isn't going anywhere. Shia bumps his knee into Brendon's leg as he climbs on the bed, pushing at Brendon's middle. The way he's always managing to take over, Shia sometimes can't believe this dude regularly tours with a bunch of other people.

"You're full of shit, Urie," Shia says as Brendon groans, unwilling to move any, and Shia's hand somehow finds itself tucked under his back in the scramble that ensues.

Brendon flops around until he finds a position that must work for him and simply says, "I'm tired."

"Not as tired as me," Shia curls his fingers to make Brendon arch and huff out irritated breaths. "Get me a beer. I wanted a drink."

"I thought you changed your mind," Brendon says, and then starts humming, half the notes dropping out in sleepy gasps. " _All day I've faced the barren waste, without the taste of water -- cool water_."

Brendon's been going through a Williams family phase pretty much since Shia met him. Shia doubts that it even counts as a phase this many months later if he's heard Brendon slip snatches of song in enough that he can recognize Hank Williams when he hears it now. Brendon's whole band is dedicated to some kind of folk-country bent that Shia doesn't fully understand. There's still a lot of music made after 1973 that he really likes, personally. The bonfires seem cool though. Shia hasn't had the opportunity to attend one yet, but Brendon called him from the middle of nowhere a month ago, drunk and happy and telling Shia that he was missing everything, including these two girls who wanted to show him a good time.

"Hey, whatever happened in Iowa?" Shia asks.

Brendon drops his head to Shia, cheek pressed again the mattress and his mouth parted mid-lyric. "Iowa? When --"

"Nevermind," Shia says. He reaches his free hand up and touches his fingers to Brendon's forehead, poking him. "Tell me about Kim."

"Oh, shit! Oh, dude, so," Brendon says, rolling onto his side and lifting up onto his arm. "So I was trying to pack her little pipe for one more hit, and she goes, 'Brendon, you're so funny,' which is true, by the way."

"You're not that funny."

"I'm fucking hilarious. You laugh at me," Brendon says, jabbing at his finger at Shia. He rocks forward, unsteady, and jams his hand into the mattress right next to Shia's head to catch himself from tumbling. Shia snatches his head back and clenches the hand under Brendon instinctively, curved along his side. Brendon's immediate laugh bubbles over and makes Shia do the same.

"Laughing _at_ you, yes. Key word there," he says, and Brendon squints. It's the kind of expression that could be a glare someday, when it grows up, but currently just makes Brendon look like he needs his glasses. Shia smiles.

Brendon says, "Anyway, so Kim -- you know, the hot craft services girl who does think I'm funny and cute and shit -- she leans in."

His body sags, hunching in close. His voice slips lower, thin whispers replacing the fullness of his words the nearer he comes to Shia. He looks fucking goofy, trying to inch in without moving his arms so much that he collapses.

Shia laughs again, light and easy, asking, "You let her make all the moves?"

He doesn't know why he's started whispering as well. Brendon does lose his balance and sinks into the bed again then, apparently more in favor of hitting Shia's stomach and making him recoil. Brendon also uses his weight to crush Shia's whole left arm, twisting his shoulder and really digging in when he complains.

"What?" Shia asks. "What, I'm listening to you tell it, and she's doing all the work! Agh, stop."

"Don't hate, dude," Brendon says, scooting up to hover over Shia, pinning his right arm down as Shia brings it up to shove Brendon. "Don't be mad, because I was making it happen while you were busy."

"I don't think you really did it."

"Aw, the _jealously_ is just dripping off you."

"Of what? Your imaginary kiss?" Shia asks, tugging his arm back but failing to shake Brendon away. Brendon's body manages an ungainly spread, one hand stretched across Shia to trap his wrist while his shoulder digs into Shia's other arm. "I'm gonna ask her about it." Brendon's face looms close. Shia has to blink to focus on him correctly as he insists. "Ask her. It happened, man. She was like right here."

They're practically nose-to-nose. Brendon squints again, and Shia wants to tell him that, for real, whatever that expression on his face is meant to accomplish doesn't work. He plans to surge up and headbutt Brendon, too, to teach him a lesson about what happens when you get in someone's face. It's been a while since karate, but managing it without hurting himself much -- Shia thinks he can remember the technique. He shrugs his shoulders, preparing, and he must have forgotten more than he anticipated, because Brendon's nose does touch his, a short, tingly sensation that makes Shia's face itch, and he means to retaliate, but he's pretty sure he's going about it wrong. He's almost positive that it shouldn't include their mouths bumping together once, and then again.

He realizes that he's still got one hand on Brendon's back, grazing just beside his spine. He rolls his shoulder, hitching Brendon up as much as he can when he's steadily been losing feeling for the past two minutes. Brendon takes the cue and evens out over Shia's chest, sliding toward the center. Their bodies shifting together sends a slow warmth throughout Shia's limbs, down and back up, and then he thinks, _fuck. Fuck, we're kissing_ just as Brendon snaps out of it, raising his head.

Brendon swallows and stutters, tongue tripping over like three sounds at once so that all that really comes out is, "Uoghd, um," and then he blinks. "Okay, that wasn't how she -- we, um."

Who? Oh. Shia's brain is operating on a delay, unable to comprehend anything other than the way Brendon licks his lips. Because they've been. Whoa.

"If I," he says abortively, and Brendon seems to agree, letting out a shaky breath that dies when Shia leans up to catch his mouth again. When he tries to move the arm Brendon has pinned another time, Brendon lets him free. He places that one on Brendon's side, pulling at the hem of his shirt to get him to move in more, Brendon eventually moving his legs over Shia's.

Everything else is lazy, limbs pressed close from mouth to hip to thigh. Brendon makes a sharp, higher-pitched noise in his throat, and Shia digs blunt fingernails into his back, pinkies dragging along a smooth strip of exposed skin. All of Shia's muscles feel somehow relaxed and wound too tight simultaneously, anchored under Brendon's weight with his eyes closed against the soft light of the room.

It's only the need to breathe that stops them. The second time they break apart, Shia takes in a huge gulp of air. Brendon slips to the side, pressing his forehead to Shia's chin.

Really, they're both breathing too fast.

Shia's adrenaline shoots through the roof, heart kickboxing his ribcage. His mind loops a messy chorus of _whatwhatwhat_ , completely nonsensical, and next to him he hears Brendon trying to catch his breath with about as little success.

He stares at the light on the ceiling, then shuts his eyes against the multi-colored echoes of the image behind the lids. He whispers, "B."

"Shit," Brendon says, and then Shia feels him roll away.

It doesn't feel like he leaves the bed entirely, but Shia doesn't open his eyes again to check. At least he's getting the circulation in his left arm back. He focuses on that and on inhaling, because better ideas elude him, so Shia lies still, perfectly fucking still, and after too long it's just easier to turn on his side in the silence and try to go to sleep.

;;

He wakes up two hours before his alarm clock, t-shirt twisted around his torso. Shia's never been much for tossing and turning, but the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Brendon's back. Once the haze clears from his brain, Shia jumps out of the bed as fast as he can, with as little commotion as possible. Thankfully, Brendon groans and scoots further from the center without waking up.

Shia sighs, relieved. Growing up, his parents had both instilled fearlessness in him: there's nobody in this world that should scare a real man, but for the five whole seconds Brendon takes to rearrange his body, Shia holds his breath.

On set, Michael directs Shia through several scenes where he gets his ass kicked. It's a welcome distraction.

Filming feels like his territory. He'd showered, left the hotel room, and wandered around smoking too many cigarettes until he could get a car over to the trailers. He hadn't waited to see if Brendon wanted to come along, and now Shia's hitting all his cues right on, Michael shouting about his satisfaction rather than his frustration. It's good, it's so good, and Shia makes sure to hold everyone's eyes when they speak to him to make sure they aren't glancing up to his forehead, reading the shit he feels he has printed all over it.

The mind, Shia thinks, is an amazing thing. It's amazing that he can remember his lines, kiss Megan on camera, and generally function like a capable human being while his head keeps chanting at him about how, yeah, the night before really happened.

 _I kissed a dude_ scrolls through his skull like the most annoying marquee. _I kissed a dude, a guy, a man, a dudedudedudefriendBRENDON._ It's the only thing on his mind, and yet he makes it through all of his shots that morning like the professional.

Brendon shows up on set right before lunch. He shows right before lunch and fucks Shia's concentration up.

He and Megan are going over the marks they need to hit another time, waiting for the call to roll. He follows her hands as she maps out the key points in the air, raising his eyes as she gestures further out in front of them -- through their path for running -- and Shia notices Brendon high-fiving someone several feet behind the monitor.

Shia's stomach drops. He keeps thinking that there's no reason he _should_ have noticed Brendon so quickly, amongst everything going on, and that makes the sinking sensation worse.

"Hey. Hey, where'd you go?" Megan asks, nudging Shia with her elbow.

Shia blinks and looks at her. Megan watches him easily, one of the few people who's never actually intimidated by direct eye contact. Shia says, "Yeah, no, go ahead. I'm here. When we cut left, you were saying..."

"Right," she says, and then pauses a moment before picking up where she left off.

The forty minutes between then and breaking for food are suddenly a lot tougher. Shia can't see Brendon by the time they start rolling film, but his pulse races anyway, fingers tingling. For a kid brought up on fearlessness, he's way too ready to shake apart, funneling the adrenaline into running for his life until Michael calls to check the gate.

He's wondering how obvious it would be if he grabbed catering and then shut himself in his trailer when he rounds the corner and sees Brendon leaning against a truck, plate in hand. He's been strangely attached to the people working craft services, and Shia clears his throat and tries to keep his shoulders loose as he walks over.

Brendon doesn't glance over and notice him until someone taps him on the shoulder -- Jake. Fuck that guy, Shia thinks, and then sighs to himself, regretful. It's not Jake's fault. It's not like he was going to be able to slip in and out without Brendon seeing him anyway.

As he walks nearer, Shia can tell Brendon squints even though he's wearing sunglasses. It's in the pull of his lips, teeth bared in a sun wince, and Shia opens his mouth to say anything, whatever ---

"You're always by the food," is, apparently, what comes out first.

Brendon lifts his plate, saying, "It's the fact that it's free. It makes it about a hundred times more appealing."

"Hi, Jake," Shia says, and Jake's friendly smile makes Shia feel even more like an asshole for mentally cursing him.

"Hey." Jake jerks a thumb toward Brendon, saying, "This one was telling me about his score last night."

Shia eyes dart over to Brendon, who quickly clears his throat and says, "With Kim, you know. And now she's not here today, so I was saying that I was too much for her."

"Yeah, right," Jake says, laughing.

Brendon feigns offense. "Are you denying that my kisses are like kryptonite?"

"Um," Shia says, holding his plate higher. "You guys have fun, I'm gonna -- I'll catch you later."

Jake waves again, and Shia doesn't look to Brendon. He's not fleeing the scene; he just has important things to do. Business. He's working.

;;

It's still an off day. His whole center feels thrown, equilibrium playing tricks on him for hours until Bay wraps the evening. Shia has tabs on Brendon during portions of the day, but he loses him by the time he finishes. He isn't compelled to call and ask either, hustling to his trailer to change out his clothes, and it turns out that he doesn't have to go looking for Brendon because he's already in the trailer, passed out on the couch.

Shia throws his jacket on Brendon's face, saying, "Dude, I need to change," while Brendon sputters to life.

"What the fu -- huh?" he mumbles, kicking Shia's jacket aside.

"That's wardrobe," Shia warns. Who just kicks costumes on the floor?

Brendon says, "You _threw_ it at me," and bumbles out of the trailer, shutting the door a little harder than necessary.

Suddenly, this visit is seeming less and less convenient.

 

**3**

Brendon gets off the couch, ducks out of Shia's trailer and thinks, motherfuck, he wishes he couldn't remember anything. He wishes he was hungover and couldn't remember the night before and that Shia had selective amnesia. He stops outside a minute to get his bearings, and then takes a deep breath. Right now, he's only feeling marginally out of sorts because the clock on his phone informs Brendon that it's later than he expected, and he hadn't even meant to pass out in the trailer.

His memory is unfortunately intact. At least if was hungover, he'd feel the cloudiness of brain was somewhat justified. Instead, he sits on the steps of Shia's trailer and wonders if the drivers remember him enough by now to take Brendon back to the hotel without the movie's lead actor. He doesn't particularly want to ride with Shia right now, thanks to Shia's grumpy mood after a day of avoidance. Forget treating costumes correctly, who throws jackets on sleeping people like that?

He's sort of regretting that Shia's rental car was only for the day, because he could use a vehicle of his own right now. Brendon wanders off to inquire about rides back to the hotel, but before he gets anywhere in asking, Shia emerges from his trailer. He doesn't look happy, but that could just be fatigue. Brendon's exhausted, too, but they know exactly where tiredness got them last night, so he's not at anxious to get back to the hotel room this time.

"You ready?" Shia asks, unusually short.

Brendon isn't ready, no, but he gets in the car with Shia once their drivers set to pull out anyway. He stares out of the window for the ten minutes it takes to move from one location to the other. He can hear Shia getting himself situated next to him and studiously keeps his eyes trained elsewhere. Brendon's stewing in enough awkwardness without making it worse.

In the hotel, he lags a couple steps behind Shia. Once they get up to the room Brendon goes in and faceplants on his pathetic fold up bed, squeezing his eyes shut until he passes out in the dark.

;;

Rewinding it in his head, Brendon can't even see how this is his fault. It's _not_. He wasn't the one who, like. He didn't try to just -- this is Shia's fault. Brendon simply came to Washington to party, watch a special effects crew blow things sky high, and sleep in late to re-energize.

He can't even get the latter down properly. Shia's one of those people that sets his alarm and sleeps through it repeatedly for an hour. Brendon tries to ignore it, and eventually picks up his shoe and tosses it toward the bed. Shia grunts and curses, waking.

"Agh, fuck off," he slurs, annoyed.

"Do something about the ringing, dude," Brendon says, because if Shia's going to be weirdly peeved at Brendon, then Brendon can play that game just as well. Shia tosses the shoe back, clipping Brendon's leg, and Brendon rolls on his other side and dismisses it.

He doesn't slip out of bed until Shia leaves. Sleeping in his clothes doesn't ever do him so well, but avoidant times call for marinating overnight in the day's jeans. Brendon peels his clothes off and savors a long, warm shower. He could probably change his flight and fly to Vegas today, but the price of the flight change could potentially cost him as much as a second ticket. He washes his hair and decides he'll weigh his options for the afternoon. Can he stick out the sharp change in atmosphere, or does he simply want to get the hell out of dodge now?

It's just... fucked up. He's hesitant to dwell on the mental images of it for too long, his weight over Shia and the proximity of their faces. Brendon hadn't seen anything coming, no way.

Making the journey from the hotel to location takes longer on foot, but Brendon's grateful for the walk. D.C. is still a good-looking city. Brendon shoves his earbuds in and sets his iPod on shuffle, hoping the stroll will clear his head.

His nervousness has dissipated by the time he reaches set. He feels less raw, but no less wary. Trying to watch the filming seems like a bad plan for the moment, so he heads for the catering truck again, thankful to see that both Jake and Kim are working again. He doesn't know how often the craft services company hired to feed the cast and crew switches out its workers, if they do very often at all, but Brendon's glad to be able to waste time with people he gets along with easily.

"Hey there," Kim says. She's refilling the coffee, looking over her shoulder when Brendon says her name. Jake holds his out for Brendon to grab in a hello.

"You're showing up late," he says.

"Took my time this morning." Brendon looks over the containers they have set out, curious. "What good eats do you have for me?"

It's only the middle of the day. Brendon has a lot of time ahead of him, so he eats too much food and then slumps next to Kim in a chair and loses six rounds of poker to Jake. Kim touches his shoulder, squeezing every time she thinks he has a decent hand, and Brendon cranes his head to side, smiling at her, and the worst part about the other night is probably that her kiss had been awesome. Stoned kisses and friendly laughter, man. Brendon had had a really nice time, but as he thinks about possibly trying it again when they get a moment, Brendon also thinks of being curled in Shia's bed, facing away from the center.

He loses the next round of cards as well and bows out gracefully.

"The best man won, seven out of seven, " Brendon says. He shakes his hand, too, because he's a gentlemen at heart, despite finicky friends who invite him out, kiss him, and then get standoffish about it.

Jesus.

Shia kissed him.

Brendon drops Jake's hand and hides his fingers in his pockets.

;;

By sunset, Brendon's gone back and forth from annoyed to guilty, then making the full circle to where he started. He fights through two stunted conversations with Shia all day, and even that's too much. It's motivation for Brendon to opt to walk back to hotel instead of waiting around to voluntarily set himself up for a third scene in the car.

Frankly, he doesn't get why this is a problem. Or, alright, he gets exactly why a wrench has been thrown into what started off as a promising few days of good company, but Brendon really, really doesn't want to spend his off time before tour stuck around someone who's going to only give him a hard time. It's -- fuck. It's not his fault, Brendon thinks again. He had been relaying a story, an amusing anecdote to serve as evidence of Brendon's inherent and unquantifiable coolness as a human being. He'd been re-enacting the situation, close and sweet, kind of funny in their fumbling, because Kim really was smoother than Brendon, but he'd been ready: clenched hands, sure mouth, and Shia surging upward with his own hand bracing Brendon's side.

Brendon squeezes his eyes shut, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk and trying to rearrange his thoughts. Shit. So, yeah, his head is the exact opposite of comforting currently.

Instinct has him detour. Instead of the half hour back to the hotel, Brendon explores the streets for two hours. He doesn't answer any phone calls except for his father's, who only wants to ask if Brendon plans to stop by the house before he flies to Europe. Brendon wants to say that, yes, he'll be on a plane tomorrow -- no, in a couple hours, even, but he pulls the phone away from his ear to take a breath, and then tells his father he'll be around soon. He'd be there before the end of the week for sure. He'd have to keep them posted.

"Alright," his father says, voice small through the receiver. "Please don't forget to call."

"I won't," Brendon promises. He checks the digital clock when he ends the conversation. The hours have tipped over into the late night category. Brendon takes a moment to figure out where the hell he is, and then heads north in search of Shia's hotel.

Shia's watching television when Brendon gets in, lacing a pair of sneakers in his lap. He raises his head as Brendon enters and doesn't speak immediately. Brendon rounds the queen-size to get to his own fold-up bed, emptying his pockets on the mattress before Shia says, "Thanks for letting me know you weren't dead, dude."

"Sorry, mom," Brendon says, snorting. He doesn't mean to stifle a laugh, but come on.

"Like, that's cool if you didn't want to wait around after," Shia says. "A heads up would've been good."

Brendon circles his wrists, cracking the bone, and asks, "What are you on my case about? Did you _really_ want to ride with me?"

"I invited you out here, and you're blowing off -- " Shia says, pushing the shoes aside. One falls to the floor, and Shia doesn't bother recovering it.

" _I'm_ not doing anything," Brendon says. He bends over to grab the shoe, thrusting it towards Shia. "You're the one, man. You're giving me the hardest fucking time just because --"

"Nevermind," Shia says and turns around after tossing the shoe on the bed with its twin, but seriously? What the hell. Brendon is saying something.

He dashes around, jumping in front of Shia. It shouldn't matter this much to Brendon. If Shia wants to turn into a skittish asshole, that should be his prerogative, but Brendon clutches his elbow and says, "Wait. I'm the one trying to brush over it, dude."

"Brush over what? Nothing happened. You didn't do anything," Shia says.

Brendon laughs, saying, "I really didn't. You kissed me."

Shia reels, head jerking backward. He says, "Excuse me?"

"I was telling you a story," Brendon says. "A story about a girl even, if I remember right."

"Lying on top of me!" Shia says, gesturing backwards like Brendon's going to be able to see the scene replaying.

"Yeah, right. It wasn't like that."

"Oh, like I asked you to lay across me."

"You sure didn't fucking stop it," Brendon says, and he knows he's taunting. Shia steps closer, expression darker.

He asks, "What does that mean?"

"Why'd you kiss me?" Brendon asks, aware of his hand on Shia's arm for the first time. Shia tries to shrug him off, but Brendon holds steady.

"I didn't," Shia says. "Get over it."

"You kissed me," Brendon says, pressing the issue. When Shia jerks this time, Brendon thinks he's trying harder to shake loose, but he doesn't go anywhere. Brendon skitters forward instead, sneakers shuffling on the floor. Closing his eyes is more an automatic response than anything, swallowing and breathing hard out of his mouth at the same time Shia inhales, and they kiss in the middle of an awkward passing of breath. Brendon thinks he should be grossed out by it, should want to flinch away, but Shia stumbles back, and they collapse.

Shia bends at the knees, Brendon's own colliding with the corner of the bed and accidentally biting because of the bounce of the mattress interrupting them. Shia hisses, and Brendon mutters something, something that's supposed to be an apology but comes out a reluctant moan. His fingers are still curved around Shia's elbow, smashed under the bone, and it hurts for one tragic second as Shia rolls left to flip them over.

Brendon doesn't know what to do with his hands. He paws aimlessly at Shia's shoulder, his arms, and eventually knots his hand in his shirt, tugging at the fabric covering his back. Their legs bump into one another before Brendon catches a clue, parting his thighs to allow Shia to slip a leg into the space, and that's, fuck, if their first time in this position was a fluke, then this is hard to write off. Brendon pushes Shia away and sucks in a huge breath while Shia tucks his chin against Brendon's shoulder, mouth muffled by comforter.

He pushes up on his arms, Brendon's hand falling down. He grabs Shia's wrist, waiting, and Shia has a wild look in his eyes that Brendon doesn't know how to define. Shia hovers over Brendon, admitting, "I'm like about to piss my pants right now, I'm so nervous."

Brendon bursts into a giggle, all teeth. He says, "Dude, please. Please, don't."

Shia laughs, too, choking on the sound, and says, "I'm so serious though."

He's trying not to do anything too suddenly, Brendon can tell. He keeps still, arms rigid, and Brendon understands that too well, halfway between running and clinging, unsure of how to move. Brendon's gripping onto Shia's wrist too tightly, but he can't figure out how to make his hands loosen. Shia finally makes himself roll sideways, throwing his body like he's ripping a band-aid, just getting it over with, and they end up sprawled out next to each other on the bed, a near-perfect repeat of a few nights earlier, except Brendon doesn't let go of Shia's wrist.

 

**4**

When Shia's alarm wakes him up the next morning, he stares at Brendon's fingers curved around his skin before stumbling out of bed to get himself together for the day.

Shia takes a shower and stares intently at the wall the whole time, working apart the week carefully in his mind. It makes sense to him laid out in tasks and call times. Everything outside of his shooting schedule leaves him light-headed, like he's been holding his breath too long and can't figure out how to inhale. He's read that another one of the side effects of oxygen deprivation is a false giddiness, too, and, smirking as he rotates his wrist, he thinks that feels about right.

He walks back into the room to get clothes, brushing his teeth. He tucks the toothbrush against his cheek while he picks out a shirt and pants, pausing when Brendon stirs on the bed.

Brendon doesn't do too much quietly. Even if it's just making airy, snuffly noises as he wakes, Shia's beginning to think he's literally incapable of operating in silence for very long. His arm stretches out as he groans, and his knees curl up closer to his stomach as he blinks and blinks and looks over at Shia.

"Morning," Shia mumbles around a mouthful of toothpaste and plastic. He quits moving clothes around to twist his hand over the knot of his towel and then wipes his palm on his hip.

"'Sup? Time to head out already?" Brendon's voice slips in and out, gravely and slumber-worn.

Shia drapes his shirt and jeans over one arm, using the other to pull his toothbrush from between his teeth and cheek. He says, "Earlier call -- mm, hold on." He rinses his mouth out and speaks up from the bathroom as he puts on his clothes on quickly. "I was going to get bagels or something, because I'm not that hungry. I was going to bring them back up, and then you could ride over with me or sleep in or whatever."

He tugs his shirt over his head as he steps into the room again. Brendon stares at him without speaking for so long that Shia coughs. He repeats, "I mean, whatever," and then busies himself with unplugging his cell phone charger and shoving his wallet in his pocket.

"Sorry, I'm still waking up," Brendon says, sitting upright. He's got jagged grooves in his cheek from sleeping with his jacket pillowed under his head, running the backs of his fingers over them as he thinks. "I'll just come with you."

"Okay," Shia says. "Okay, yeah, shower while I grab food. What, uh, what do you like?"

"Yeah," Brendon says, breathing in and stretching his arm out again. He scratches his hair and half-smiles. "I like everything bagels."

"Right," Shia says, snatching the hotel room key card from the night stand. "Right, I knew that. Alright, I'll be back. I'll buy it, too, don't worry about it."

"Oh! I was gonna give -- okay," Brendon says. "Thanks."

"Sure."

Shia raises his hand, waving, although it isn't until he's downstairs, ordering two each in the bagel shop that he realizes he's paying for both of them. He wonders if this counts as some kind of morning after, and then laughs at himself as he stuffs napkins in the bag.

Thankfully, he doesn't have to dwell on it. By the time Brendon gets himself dressed, they have to head right out for the car, and Brendon looks out the window while he chews his food, feet tapping to a rhythm on the radio. Shia drums his fingers on the seat between them, preoccupied with how little area a foot really is. It's barely a sliver of space that gets dwindled down to nothing when the DP jumps in last minute and Shia slides closer to Brendon, their knees bumping and shoes knocking as Brendon keeps time through the whole three songs they hear on their way to location, and Shia rests his hands on his thighs and looks down to check his seatbelt, because he keeps forgetting if he buckled it.

;;

The difference between today and yesterday comes down to Shia's nausea. Today Shia doesn't feel like he's on edge, zeroed in on Brendon watching, and paranoid that everybody's wondering why he's gazing just past Michael instead of looking directly at him. The nerves are still there, his arms and legs thrumming with an anxious shake, but he doesn't picture himself being surrounded and closed off, stressed out.

At lunch a group of people are sitting around on pavement instead of trying to find chairs, and Brendon sits down behind Shia, pressing their backs together in lieu of a seat. Shia eats with Brendon's shoulder nudging him every time he moves and his laughter clear behind him, although Shia can't see his face. Every time Brendon's shoulder blade skids across his own, the knot in Shia's stomach coils tighter, but he swallows another mouthful of pasta and bears it.

It helps that they're getting down to their last couple days in Washington. There's a celebratory vibe flowing through the set that keeps his spirits high and his thoughts easy, and while the crew sets up for the last shot of the night, Brendon says they should do shots after the night's wrap.

"I'm leaving tomorrow, dude. I won't be here when it's time to really party," he says.

"We still have to film Princeton and in New Mexico, dude. It's not the end of filming," Shia says, tapping the edge of his boot against a hard case on the ground.

Brendon shakes his head, pointing out that, "It's the end for me. I've gotta get my shit together in Vegas before Europe."

"You're not leaving when we do?" Shia asks, flicking the cigarette in his hand down.

Brendon says, "What, so I can get caught up in you guys all hustling around? I'm the freeloader right now; I'm on vacation. No anxieties or worries."

"You're just lazy," Shia says, laughing. Brendon grins.

"Do you want me to stay or something?"

Shia clears his throat, stepping back. He says, "No -- it's -- I'm just saying. If you're in a rush to get back to being bored at home, that's all you."

Brendon's still wearing the smile, the corners of it fading slowly as he stares. He opens his mouth to say something, and then one of the assistant directors comes by yelling for marks in two. Shia's head snaps to hear the announcement, and when he turns back, Brendon's mouth is closed like he hadn't been planning to speak at all.

Shia says, "So. Booze after?"

"Definitely," Brendon says. "You know I'm still in that newly twenty-one groove? I get excited about buying my own alcohol almost three months later."

"Excited enough that you want to by mine, too?" Shia asks.

Brendon laughs, but says, "Fuck it, dude, yeah!"

"I'm gonna hold you to that," Shia says, looking over his shoulder. He needs to get back to work. Before he goes, he taps Brendon on the shoulder, only pausing when Brendon's eyes flash down to Shia's hand. He steps back and points at Brendon. "Tonight. We'll get liquored up on your dollar."

"I'm gonna drink you under a table!" Brendon shouts.

;;

The way it turns out, they split the tab. Megan joins them for the first hour, along with CP and a girl from hair and makeup, but by the end of the night, it's just Shia and Brendon brushing up on the dart skills and picking all the hair metal songs on the jukebox for some kind of epic playlist. Both the dart skills and the playlist suck, but it's so late and they're so full of alcohol that it doesn't matter.

When they're too drunk to see straight, Brendon hooks Shia's arm around his shoulder, and they buddy-walk back to the hotel, practically collapsing in the elevator. Successfully collecting themselves to get out on their floor and walk down the hall next is like starting from scratch. Shia takes his turn leading the way. Brendon braces his hands over Shia's shoulders, laughing every time Shia trips over his own feet.

"It's not funny," Shia says, giggling at himself, and Brendon laughs louder.

"It is. Dude, you have to see you right now," Brendon chokes out. Shia can feel him lean forward and bump his head between Shia's shoulders. The way he pulls down has Shia slow up. "Oh, shit, I'm gonna hate myself tomorrow. The worst flight, dude, fuck."

"Hold on, hold on," Shia says. He squints at the room number on a door and figures out that his is down three more.

Digging out his key is a feat. When they find Shia's room, Shia has to find the card to get in, and he has never done anything as difficult and figure out how to use his pocket in this moment. Brendon keeps snickering into Shia's shirt, lifting his chin and huffing shallowly against Shia's neck. His breaths are hot.

"You're killing my shoulder. Stand up," Shia says, inching his wallet out of his back pocket. He can't maneuver well with Brendon's arms over him, and Brendon slumps into the door while Shia tries to find the card he needs.

"Sorry," Brendon says, a single word laced with endless amusement. His fingers catch in Shia's shirt, tugging uselessly, and Shia staggers forward, snorting at his own lack of stability.

He braces a hand on the door beside Brendon, feeling the soft puffs of Brendon's chuckling graze his chin. Shia drops his wallet, and that makes it all even funnier to him, to both of them, and as he drops his head to see where it landed, Brendon says, "But wait, wait," and tilts his face sideways to meet Shia's mouth.

Brendon half-laughs into the kiss, scratching his fingers along Shia's side. Shia crowds him more, scuffing the toe of his sneaker along the bottom of the door to his hotel room. He pushes his other hand into the door as well, trapping Brendon between three points -- arm, body, arm -- and thinks about what they would look like to anyone who might see them now.

"I'm not," Shia mumbles against Brendon's mouth. "I don't do dudes."

"Me neither," Brendon says, knee bumping into Shia's leg.

When Brendon's hand swipes across his belt, Shia angles his hips forward and feels more of their bodies touch. Shia says, "Do you want to come to New Mexico?"

"Can't," Brendon says, curling his fingers under the waistband of Shia's jeans just barely -- just enough.

Shia gasps and falls back, taking in the way Brendon looks as he thumps his head back against the door. He bends down to get his wallet, focuses on pulling the keycard out, sliding it into the slot on the door, and Brendon folds backwards as it opens, pulling Shia with him.

"You could've warned me," Brendon says. He covers part of Shia's middle, his elbow stabbing into Shia's ribs. His face is flushed.

"My bad," Shia says, groaning, because, shit, Brendon has the boniest elbow in existence. Brendon pops the back of his hand on Shia's cheek, nothing too hard, and Shia tilts his head back. Brendon's nails trace the ridge of his jaw and skim over his throat. Shia's stomach flip-flops, and he closes his eyes against Brendon's face only lit by the fluorescent light spilling in from the hallway.

Brendon reverses the hand, and Shia grits his teeth, measuring his own breaths as the soft pads of fingers drag across his throat and map his collarbone. He counts backwards from a hundred, positive that Brendon can feel his thigh tense and release. Shia licks his lips, digging his own fingers into carpet.

"Shia," Brendon whispers, interrupting himself. Shia opens his eyes, watching Brendon watch him, and he forgets that he's waiting for something until Brendon slides his knees forward and uses them to get up, slurring, "I'm gonna throw up."

"What?"

Shia raises his head, but Brendon shakes his head and uses the wall to stand. He cuts on the bathroom light on and kicks the door shut. Shia surveys his surroundings, too lazy to even lift his legs to let the front door shut. Fuck. Whatever.

He drops his head hard against the floor, wishing it was enough to either sober him or up or knock him out.

;;

The good news is that Brendon doesn't upchuck the entire contents of his stomach. Shia manages to take off the clothes he's been wearing all day before collapsing in the bed, and after hugging the porcelain for a while, Brendon takes the other side of the bed. He sleeps on top of the covers. Shia's too drunk and too close to sleep to give a shit.

The bad news is that, for whatever reason, Brendon's flight leaves at ass o'clock in the morning. The alarm on Brendon's cell goes off what seems to Shia like half a second after he dozes off, but the clock across the room says it's 6AM. He pushes Brendon out of the bed with his foot, and then covers his face in blankets while Brendon gets his things together.

Sometime later, Shia gets poked in the side over and over and makes him donkey-kick his leg out in hopes of causing serious damage. Outside of the blankets, Brendon's laughing and wearing his glasses indoors again.

"Mmph," Shia says. It's supposed to be a question.

Brendon says, "I'm getting ready to head out. I just wanted to let you know and say thanks and whatever."

He seems really put together for so early. Shia wonders if he's actually still wasted as he sits up to shove his covers away. He says, "No, hold on, I'll walk you down."

He pulls on his jeans and t-shirt again and doesn't bother with shoes. Socks are fine. He doesn't care. When he groans, Brendon chuckles and pats him on the shoulder, reaching out to grab onto Shia's elbow and pull him along.

They walk side-by-side in the hallway, mostly quiet, until Brendon says, "You look pissed off."

"Huh? No, I'm just _tired_ ," Shia says, brushing his hands over his head. He rubs his eyes and sighs.

"Do you ever get really bad hangovers?" Brendon asks.

"Not usually. A headache or something, but I think today I just need to get more sleep." Shia punches the button for the elevator after the hall opens up, and they stop to wait. He flicks at Brendon's hoodie, making the fabric fall backwards off his hair. "How are you so perky?"

"Dude, I'm still tipsy," Brendon says. "I hope it doesn't hit me later. It's gonna blow if I get sick on the plane."

"You'll be alright," Shia says and refrains from mentioning that if Brendon stayed he'd have a whole day to recover. He's not really sure if it's a good idea that Brendon stays anyway. "You called a cab already?"

"Yeah," Brendon says. "You want to do a checklist? I got everything."

Shia jabs Brendon in the arm lightly, saying, "I'm not the one who said he was trying to get out of here still blotto. With the shit-eating grin at six-something in the morning."

"I'm happy," Brendon says.

"You're full of tequila," Shia corrects, and he pulls Brendon's sunglasses off his face and slips them on his own just as the elevator opens.

Shia leans against the wall and watches Brendon from across the space, Brendon holding his gaze even with the glasses as an obstacle. Brendon smirks at him, raising an eyebrow, and Shia thinks about his fingers at his belt. He thinks about the lump winding in his stomach all week, both fascinated and put off by it, and then Brendon deliberately makes a weird face that surprises Shia into laughing.

The cab's already waiting when they get to the front doors. Brendon turns to Shia, holding out his hand for the glasses. Shia hands them over, wondering how they're going to handle this, but Brendon yanks on Shia's wrist and makes the decision for them both. He goes for the hug. Shia gasps a little, laughter tagged onto the end of the shock, and he says, "Vegas is like a ten-hour drive from New Mexico. We're blowing more shit up out there than here. We'll be out there for the 4th."

Somehow, in the night, Shia turned into the kind of person who doesn't care about what may or may not be a good idea. Brendon pushes his knuckles into Shia's spine, and Shia inhales quick, anticipating.

"I'll call you when I land so you know the plane didn't crash," Brendon says, retreating. He picks up his bag and hauls it over his shoulder. "Drink a beer and light some of the illegal fireworks in my honor."

"Fuck that, I'm bringing an M80 to your house after we wrap. We're gonna set it off right in your neighborhood. Your roommate can film it," Shia says.

"Deal," Brendon says, and then he pushes his fingers at the side of Shia's head, "Alright, go back to sleep, LaBeouf. I gotta go."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't puke on whoever sits next to you," Shia says, calling after Brendon as he goes through the revolving doors.

He waves at the cab driver as he lugs his bag to the curb. Shia returns the gesture. The cab driver meets Brendon at the trunk, and although Shia can't make out what Brendon's saying, he can see him trying to talk to the guy the way he does everybody. Brendon's such a loser, Shia thinks. He's definitely going to throw up in someone's lap on the airplane.

Shia makes himself turn around and move toward the elevators before he can see them get in the car and pull off.

 

**5**

In Las Vegas, Ryan's supposed to pick Brendon up from the airport, but he's late as usual. Even when that dude gets early starts, he'll somehow manage to roll in five minutes late. Being fashionably late is just his nature, Brendon's learned over the years, and it took him too long to really get that even though Spencer had told Brendon in the very beginning that, well, "Yeah, Ryan does what he wants."

Today Ryan apparently wants to leave Brendon waiting around in baggage claim. He dials Ryan's cell, leaves him a voicemail that sums up all of his frustration in a simple, "Whaaaaat the fuck," and then Brendon sits on top of his bag and decides he might as well kill some time by finishing the book Ryan gave him a week ago.

It's then, of course, after searching his bag, that Brendon finds out he must have left the stupid book in D.C. because he can't find it in his things. He could easily buy a new one, or have Shia send off the copy he left. It wouldn't get to Vegas until after he'd already flown out of the country, which makes buying seem like the better option. Ryan might not even be able to tell the difference, anyway, between his copy and a new one.

Brendon digs his phone out of his pocket and makes a call.

It rings three times before Shia answers, saying, "Have you really landed already? That was fast."

"No, I'm calling mid-air," Brendon says, switching his phone from left ear to right. "Nobody's in-flight rules scare me."

"Ohh, big shot. I thought you were trying not to fall out of the sky."

"Next I'm going to land without my safety belt on."

"How dangerously can one guy live, dude? Save some for later," Shia says. The last few words fold into each other like he's got something in his mouth. Probably another cigarette. "What time did you get in?"

"Twenty minutes ago," Brendon says, giving up the ghost without a fight. "Are you in the middle of something?"

"Aw, no, just this thing," Shia says. He pauses, his voice coming back clearer, words full and separate now as he says, "filming this little thing. You may not know about it. It's a student project, really. There are some robots."

"Kind of like 'Humans are Dead'?" Brendon asks, and Shia laughs.

"Yeah, exactly. It's like a wannabe Flight of the Conchords," he says. "We're in between takes right now. They're setting up the next shot. Is this is the phone call I was promised to let me know you didn't die in the air?"

"You got it. This is kind of double agenda though, because I think you still have my book I was reading --"'

"What, that Marquez novel? I already told you that shit blows."

"Ryan liked it! Dude, it's his. He's gonna want it back," Brendon says, stretching out his legs in front of him.

Shia says, "Whatever. You want me to mail it to you, is that it?"

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble," Brendon says. He pinches his mouth tighter, putting on some unspecific accent, and on the other end of the line, Shia snorts.

"It won't get there in time."

"That's what I was thinking, but it's the principle of the thing, right?" Brendon says. He bounces his leg, keeping a rhythm, and when Brendon looks up, he sees Ryan stroll through the doors. "Speak of the devil. His highness has finally decided to make an appearance."

"Tell him I said hey," Shia says. "Tell him his book sucks."

"I'm definitely telling him only the first part," Brendon says, smiling at Shia's chuckle. He stands to wave Ryan over, and as Ryan moves closer, Brendon shoves his hand in pocket, focusing on the phone again. "Alright, LaBeouf, I guess they're waiting for you on that student film."

"'There is only one dance -- the Robot,'" Shia quotes. "And the Robo-boogie."

"You're a fucking nerd," Brendon says, still grinning, and Ryan raises an eyebrow as he comes to stand in front of Brendon, pulling off his shades.

Shia says, "Says the guy who talked about a book just to stay on the phone with me longer."

"You wish I came up with stuff just to talk to you," Brendon says, clenching his fingers in his pocket and tapping his foot arrhythmically. "Don't you have a job to do right now?"

"Yeah, man, alright. I'm gonna go. Tell Ryan I said hi, for real."

"I will," Brendon says, and he ends the call after the goodbyes, tucking the phone away. Ryan's still watching him with a raised eyebrow, the expression only breaking for the few seconds Brendon hugs him hello and he can't actually see Ryan's face.

"What?" Brendon says. "Shia said hey, by the way."

Ryan nods, surveying Brendon a moment longer like the freaking weirdo he is, and then he says, "Your flight got in early."

Brendon rolls his eyes. "Or, hey, maybe you got here late."

"I'm on time all the time," Ryan says, and Brendon doesn't suppress the laugh that bubbles out of him, which Ryan smirks at but doesn't justify with a response. He flips his sunglasses back down onto his face and leads the way out of the airport.

;;

The pathetic part, Brendon finds, is that he does keep wanting to call Shia to tell him about multiple lame, minimally funny things that come up over the next few days. Thanks to Shia, he's paranoid about it now. They exchange a series of text messages, although Brendon doesn't become aware of just how much they're talking until he's sitting in yet another airport next to Jon, who leans over to look at Brendon's screen and asks, "What's funny?"

"Nothing," Brendon says, snatching his phone away. "Why, what?"

"You keep cheesing at that thing," Jon says. "Share the jokes with the class. We're in this wait together."

"No, Shia's just telling me about something Megan did."

Jon scoots closer, trying to peek at Brendon's phone again. "She's that hot girl, right? The one in the movie -- what did she do?"

"Are you in my business, or are you in my business?" Brendon asks. "You won't get it; it has to do with a night we were out last week. She drinks her beer this certain way."

"That's not funny," Jon says.

"It's a good thing I wasn't trying to tell you about it then," Brendon says, pausing to stick his tongue out at Jon. He ducks away when Jon tries to cuff his head, but Jon pops him in the arm instead.

Jon says, "I see how it is."

"Don't cry about it," Brendon says, except it's true.

That's exactly how it is. At least, that's how it becomes. Brendon spends an increasing amount of time pulling out his phone to send off a quick message either in response to Shia or to send him photos of the butt ugly jackets they find in London that Ryan loves, and of which they all end up purchasing variations, because, okay, maybe they aren't that bad.

 _they're that bad_ , Shia writes, _but maybe that's why it works_.

Brendon replies, _Ryan makes the craziest stuff make sense_.

 _or maybe you're brainwashed_ , comes Shia's next message.

_is that more jealousy i'm smelling over here? That scent travels fast dude_

Brendon smirks when he sends the text, and it only takes Shia a minute to write back, _why aren't you hanging out in nm again?_

 _you've seen 1 desert, you've seen them all_ , Brendon responds, and then after some contemplation adds. _plus, work. you know how it goes_.

He sends the text before he can include anything else, and after he reads Shia's last reply, Brendon shoves his phone in his pocket and goes to find the others.

They haven't talked about D.C. Even having ended the night wasted and curled around a hotel toilet, Brendon remembers the key preceding moments. He knows, with a hazy sort of certainty -- sure it happened but wavering on the details -- that he's kissed Shia three times. Or there have been three periods where they've -- Or. Well. Three is the important number in any case. Saying goodbye in the hotel lobby before flying to Las Vegas, Brendon had looked at Shia's sleepy face and recalled the fading memory of the shape of his mouth. It had stuck with him throughout security checkpoint, through takeoff, and the in-flight movie, with the sort of nagging half-clarity that made him lose it unless he closed his eyes and yet never left his mind.

They haven't talked about any of it, and Brendon's not really sure if he wants to either.

It works in favor of the shows surprisingly. Brendon puts a lot of effort into not thinking about it as much as he can, which means he spends all day sending messages back and forth across the world, and then throwing himself into performance. He plays harder, he sings with more intensity, and he works off the adrenaline built during a set by bouncing himself off the others and taking his phone out of his pocket a hundred times an evening to check the time. Right. Just checking the time.

The afternoon that they're in Frankfurt, Shia calls Brendon in the morning to say, "Fuck the desert. It's hot."

"Did everybody else get tired of hearing you complain? So you called me?" Brendon asks, popping another raw carrot in his mouth. He's pretty sure the little bag of them belong to Spencer. "It's like eighty here right now."

"It rained a lot last night, so it's sort of cooler today, but the temperature's been up there," Shia says.

"I believe it," Brendon says. "My mom was telling me it's still over a hundred in Nevada."

Shia says, "Yeah, it sucks for everybody. I didn't call about that though. I called to say I got your M80."

"I don't believe you." Brendon folds his legs underneath himself, sitting a little straighter. "You're lying. You'd have to go into Mexico for real for something like that, wouldn't you? You don't have time to go to Mexico."

Shia laughs, saying, "I'm for real! Trust me, no, yeah, they had to change the schedule around because the rain started earlier than we thought. Chansky -- Alex, you met him. Alex and Mike were around, and I talked to them about it. We were out until like four this morning."

"Send me a picture," Brendon says. "You only bought one?"

Shia says, "Three. They want to light a bunch of stuff on the fourth, you know? Oh, do you have a webcam on your laptop? You do, right? Then I don't have to end this call to take the photo."

"Yeah, hold on, let me..."

The laptop's in the back lounge. Brendon knocks his knuckles against the bunks idly as he passes through the bus. Ryan pokes his head out of his, asking him what he wants, and Brendon calls, "Nothing," over his shoulder as he plops onto the couches in the back and grabs his laptop.

He hasn't used the video chatting on his computer in a while. It takes them longer than it should to get the connection set up. The wireless around the venue is weaker where the bus is parked, and as soon as Brendon finally sees Shia's face, they both burst into laughter.

"Dude, dude," Shia says. "Okay, it's working fine now? What the hell, we should've done this earlier."

"You look like you just now fell out of bed," Brendon says, and he realizes as he says it that he can hear Shia through both his phone and computer. "Hey, I'm gonna ditch the cell."

Shia says, "I kind of did just wake up," lowering his own phone and setting it aside. "We're doing more night filming."

"Ahh, so you can afford to be lazy," Brendon says. Shia shrugs and pops the collar of his t-shirt like it makes a point. Brendon shakes his head. "Show me the fireworks, dude."

It's not like Brendon's never seen an M80 in his life, but there's still something worthwhile about Shia holding up the ones he bought. Shia explains that they might set off two for the fourth, but he'll definitely have at least one for Brendon when he gets back to the states.

"There's no way you're gonna fly with that," Brendon reminds him.

Shia says, "I'll figure it out. Don't worry about that."

"I'm more worried about you blowing off your hand," Brendon says. They've spent enough time looking at that kind of random stuff, clicking through Google images of people without thumbs or forefingers.

"Aw, you worry about me," says Shia. He leans closer to the camera to bat his eyes at Brendon and laughs when he notices the middle finger Brendon raises for him.

They're only on the webcams briefly. Spencer comes in with Zack, and they let Brendon know that it's about time to head in and meet with some magazine people ready for an interview. Spencer sticks his face in front Brendon's computer, tilting sideways until Brendon can't even see the screen through Spencer's head, but he hears Shia say hello as Spencer waves.

"How's the acting game treating you?" Spencer asks.

"I think the A/C in my trailer's broken," Shia says, and Brendon lets Spencer talk for a minute before he gets impatient. To hurry him, Brendon starts bouncing his leg, interrupting Spencer.

"You're killing my circulation; get off," Brendon says, and then they both tell Shia they'll catch him later before signing off.

"Quit whining," Spencer says, but he holds out a hand for Brendon once he stands. "Did you eat my carrots?"

;;

The backstage interview goes neither great nor too terribly. Brendon generally prefers overseas interviews to American ones, because at least if the questions are the same, the accents are more interesting. He lets the rest of them field most of the questions this time and sits back with his legs crossed, right ankle over his left knees, and he taps his phone on his calf repeatedly.

It isn't the interviewer. She's pleasant, regarding them with cool smiles and a confidence that comes along with someone who's at least taken the time to read up some beforehand. It's not her, it's not anything in particular, except maybe Brendon's scattered focus. His mind keeps straying.

His head's trapped on the bus, he thinks, and every time the woman asking questions looks down at her notes, Brendon lifts his phone to peek at the face even though he knows it would vibrate if a message came through.

Once they finish the interview, they don't bother leaving the venue. There's food, so Brendon grabs a bag of chips and picks at them for several minutes until the itch in his fingers gets the better of him. He types, _you should film it when you set off the M80s_.

Shia takes a few minutes to get back to him, writing, _you should come here to light it yourself._

 _yeah, right_ , Brendon sends, and then stares at his screen. He'd go to hang out in New Mexico for the holiday, if he was closer -- if he had the time off. Maybe. He thinks, _three times_ over and over in quick succession, and Brendon writes a second text that reads, _you make me nervous_ , and sends it, too much honesty forwarded before he thinks better of it.

More than his own nerves then, Shia's response surprises him: _why? i promise i won't light you on fire. aren't you the pyro?_

Brendon chuckles to himself, glancing up to see Jon eyeing him again. He makes a face, and Jon wrinkles his own in a sloppy mirror image of Brendon. Looking back to his phone, Brendon exhales loudly and types out, _you light your sister's hair on fire one time nobody lets you live it down, but that's not what i meant_

 _you were probably a scary child_ , writes Shia.

Brendon considers dropping what he's trying to say. Spelling it out makes it harder, and he's not even fully sure of what he's trying to get at anyway, too busy simultaneously trying to get some kind of message across and mentally poking at the edges of memories where what still sticks out most to him is how hard it was to stay calm.

He drags his teeth over his bottom lip and writes, _you said I made you nervous in dc_

Ten minutes later, he has one new message: _i know. i knew what you meant._

Oh. Okay. Brendon doesn't know what to say to that, so he goes to get something else to eat instead.

Brendon eats, relaxes, and then gets dressed for their set an hour before he really needs to be. It's better than waiting around in the full make-up and extravagant costuming they used for the Circus tour, but it doesn't change the fact that Brendon's dressed too early, reaching to find things to do. He's always been decent at avoiding a situation but sort of bullshit at lying to himself.

Taking the stage is at least a mostly legitimate excuse. His phone signals a new message before they perform, but he doesn't check it until way after they finish for the night.

Brendon tucks himself into a corner when they hang out afterward. Across the table, Spencer nurses his glass and bobs his head to the beat of the music. It's a sponsored appearance. They have to stick around for another forty-five minutes, and then Zack will probably get them out and elsewhere if they're ready to go. For now, they've got drinks, and Brendon stares at the screen of his phone sitting on the table.

_have you done that before? DC, i mean._

Brendon slides his thumbs back and forth along the edge of the table. He thinks about it -- D.C. and before, and finally picks up the phone to say, a few hours after the fact, _kind of? not really?_

It takes a lot less time for him to get a response. Brendon idly wonders if Shia had to look up his previous text to remember what he asked, though he also figures that's probably just wishful thinking.

Shia asks, _what does that mean?_

 _it's complicated_ , Brendon writes.

A minute or two, and then, _explain it?_

Really, it's not _that_ difficult a story. Brendon had been drunk enough to think it a good idea -- the most convenient idea, maybe -- to let Darren undo his belt buckle completely. They'd been together, drunk on tequila and high on life, or some shit, and Brendon had choked on his breaths when Darren got a hand on his cock. He'd swallowed a mouthful of air as Darren's lips closed around the head moments later, and in the morning, Brendon had a headache and an excuse, and they hadn't brought it up again ever. Not ever.

It takes him twenty minutes to type out, simply, _i let a guy blow me once. i was drunk. it was just the once_ , and muster up the balls to send it on.

Shia takes a lot less time to send back, _whoa_ , but several minutes longer -- a span of time that allows Brendon to finish a drink and contemplate downing a few more shots for good measure -- to follow it up with a second, separate message. He writes, _did you like it?_

Not that the question helps relieve any of Brendon's stress. How the hell was he supposed to know?

_the blowjob? i love blowjobs._

_you know what I'm saying_ , Shia writes.

Yeah, yeah, Brendon knows. He has another drink between Shia's latest text and Zack clearing them to bail if they want. Brendon definitely wants. After four more songs and another round, the others opt out too, and Brendon sings "Sexyback" all the way to their hotel, because some bad techno remix of the song is playing over the speakers as they leave.

"If you don't shut up," Ryan warns while they're pulling their bags from underneath the bus. Brendon finally stops, even if he knows Ryan's not really going to do a thing to him should Brendon defy him.

He thinks about the question all the way up to his room. That's a tough call. It's hard to pull out a memory from so long ago (not their most recent tour, but a festival before it) and trying to analyze whether it was something he enjoyed.

Brendon had come at any rate. Darren had taken a moment to go spit in a sink. There's never been a repeat.

Tonight Brendon's rooming with Jon. He waits for Jon to disappear into the bathroom to text, _I don't know. I haven't really thought about it since then_.

 _How do you not think about something like that?_ Shia asks, and Brendon stares at the capital 'H' at the beginning of the sentence like that's the thing tripping him up in this whole conversation. It's been pretty easy not thinking about it, believe it or not, so. So maybe it isn't like D.C. at all, in that regard.

Before Brendon can write a response, there's another message in his inbox, reading, _i keep thinking i want to kiss you again_ , and that --

Brendon doesn't really know what to do with that.

"What happened?" Jon asks, walking into the room again and sitting down on his own bed, and Brendon realizes he must have made a noise out loud.

"Shane sent me another chain letter with some gross picture," Brendon says, totally fucking lying. "There's a guy with no nose, dude."

Jon gets under the covers and turns on the television, saying, "Can you still smell with no nose? Like, you get into some fucked up, freak accident and lose the nose, but, what, do you lose your sense of smell entirely?"

"You could probably Google that," Brendon says at the same time he's typing, _hey there, curveball,_ then erasing it to try, _is that why you want me out there?_ , then erasing that to just go with, _you just think?_ The first version is too silly, the second he isn't ready to know the answer to, and the third keeps the attention off of himself a little longer.

Across the way, Jon says, "I'm gonna check," and pulls his laptop from his backpack. Brendon glances at him, and at the television, and he forgets for a second what they hell they're even talking about.

His phone buzzes in his hand. The message is short: _call me?_

Brendon purses his lips, thinking. He looks at the time, counts back the hours, and seriously thinks. He'd really only have to hit 'send' at this point, with the text message still open.

"Oh, shit, look at this," Jon says, snapping his fingers for Brendon's attention. He starts to spin his laptop in Brendon's direction, and Brendon means to make Jon wait, he does, but he drops the phone and goes over to check out Jon's computer screen.

;;

Honestly? Honestly, Brendon's a busy guy. He falls asleep, has to get up early to hustle onto the bus, rehearses some minor guitar changes Ryan wants to make on the ride over, and when they roll into the venue parking lot, they immediately set up for soundcheck. He's got a lot of tasks to get done. As far as Saturdays go, Brendon's in the middle of a busy one.

The sound engineer gives them a thumbs up after they play a song all the way through. Brendon lingers on stage. He takes his guitar off, hands it to the tech, and then sits on the edge of the stage with his phone, dialing and thinking, for real, he's just so busy. Tour keeps him preoccupied.

His mouth is fixed, prepared to say something to that effect, but his phone rings four times and then the voicemail answers. Shia's voice says, "Thank God for the beef. Leave a message."

It's the beep that derails Brendon's whole train of thought. He coughs unnecessarily, and says, "So I'm an asshole. Call me back."

Shia doesn't. Brendon can't even be surprised, although while he's playing some bastardized version of mini-golf with Spencer he admits to himself that he might be somewhat disappointed. It's the weirdest feeling he's had in a long time, this uncertain sense of being truly bummed. He doesn't like it. He watches Spencer knock a ball into another one of the plastic cups they've set up, mostly wishing the fluttering in him would stop.

The show that night goes well. Decent. Brendon misses a few chords and doesn't shoot apologetic glances at anybody. In school, years ago, his band teacher taught him that, worse than screwing something up in performance, a musician should never apologize to his audience. Just recover, he'd said. Brendon thinks about that almost every night, whenever he's got a microphone or an instrument in his hand.

As Ryan and Jon introduce "She's A Handsome Woman," Brendon spares like four selfish seconds to wonder if he has any new voicemails. Just recover. Before the song starts, he takes a sip from his cup next to his microphone stand, and then forgets about it.

;;

On the Fourth of July, they're in Paris, and Paris doesn't care about American independence. They don't have a single firework. More than that, Brendon's surprised when he gets an email from Shia -- a video attachment with a minute-long clip of him lighting one of the M80s with Alex. From what Brendon can see, nobody loses a hand. The body of the email only says, _Tag, you're it._

Brendon watches the video three more times during the day before he takes Ryan's camera, and then films Jon and Spencer playing hacky-sack in the hallway ten minutes to show. It isn't as exciting as blowing shit up, but Brendon sets the camera by his computer while they perform, and then comes back to upload the video to his laptop and attach it to an email, writing _goose_ in the subject line.

He wonders if he should call Shia again, too, because if this is the game they're playing, then... well, Brendon's probably just going to play along.

Zack mentions that he's going out with Jon and Ryan, and Brendon chooses to head to their hotel and shower. He'll go out tomorrow night, maybe. They're just playing Paris again. He's looking forward to sleeping in a bed and not having to get up early to make bus call or just spending the night in a bunk, period.

When he gets out of the shower, he opens up his computer and finds that he has another email waiting for him from Shia. Brendon hasn't been anticipating it since he left the venue or anything. He saves it and watches the clip, Shia focusing on himself and saying, "Can you hear that?" There's some muffled background noise. People chanting something, or singing, but Brendon can't make out the words.

"We started talking about how you know you're famous when there are songs about you. Parody songs about you especially," Shia says. "Josh is around today. He reminded everybody of _Team America_. Bay's not around, and I feel fucking bad, because he's teaching everybody the words to that Pearl Harbor song."

Shia takes the camera and spins it around, opening a door. Brendon gets a shitty view of the back of people's head and can make out the tail end of lines: _like Ben Affleck needs acting school, he was terrible in that film_

"Hey!" Shia calls out. "For the record, Affleck's really nice. He's a cool dude."

Megan looks up, turning her head and asking, "What are you doing? Is that a camera?"

"From the top!" Josh hollers, and then begins the song over again, sing-songing complete with conductor fingers, " _I miss you more than Michael Bay missed the mark when he made Pearl Harbor..._ "

The camera flips around again. Shia's aiming for himself or something, but Brendon really just gets a view of the bottom left portion of his face. He can see half of Shia's mouth as he says, "Welcome to the party you're missing. You've got me hiding in the bathroom with a camera like an ass to give you updates."

The video cuts like that. Brendon doesn't have Ryan's camera handy anymore. He uses the built-in on his laptop, towel draped over his wet hair, and sits on the bed to give a testimonial. Brendon makes two clips because he fucks up the first one, laughing and unsure of what the hell he wants to say. He starts recording the second and reaches out to grab the clean t-shirt he laid out for himself, tossing the towel away and pulling the fabric over his head.

"Okay," he says, eyeing the tiny lens. It's always hard not to just watch himself on screen and look directly at the camera. "Your Fourth party is still better than mine though. I think we have half a bottle of rum somewhere. I'm going to find Spencer and make him drink with me instead making kissy noises at his dogs long-distance."

He gives Shia a virtual tour of his hotel room, carrying his laptop around in front of him. It's probably the second stupidest video he's ever made with his computer, trumped by the time Ryan wanted Brendon to record himself trying to sing "Barbie Girl" in his Gollum voice. Ryan gets obscene amounts of joy out of the weirdest shit, but it's okay, because Brendon likes it when people are entertained by him. His brothers were always annoyed by some of that stuff when he was younger. Anyway, at least that video was entertaining in its stupidity.

Not too long after he sends the video to Shia, Brendon's phone rings. He hesitates a second, but just one, and then allows the call to come through. He says, "Well, well."

"That video depressed the hell out of me." Shia's half-laughing as he speaks. "Please don't drink alone. Promise you'll at least definitely find Spencer."

"I'm sorry, is the dude who himself locked in the bathroom at a party giving me a hard time?" Brendon asks, flopping back on his mattress. He stares at the ceiling, mouth parted in a sloppy, crooked grin. "I don't think Spencer's around anyway. He might've gone out too."

"Does he really make kissy noises to his dogs on the phone?" Shia asks.

Brendon holds up his hand, making a circle with his fingers. He squints and tries to limit his vision to seeing the patch of plaster through the small opening he's created for himself, saying into the receiver, "It's part of his nightly routine with his girlfriend back in Vegas."

"That's kind of funny," Shia says. "Although you dress your dogs in sweaters and scarves, so I shouldn't be surprised."

"I don't -- okay, I do," Brendon says, giggling at himself. It's not just him. Shane likes the sweaters too. "You know, I know another guy who locked himself in the bathroom with a camera once."

It takes Shia a moment to get Brendon's meaning. He stutters, and his open, round laugh punches through the receiver after a delay. He says, "I'm not even in the bathroom anymore. And I wasn't planning on sending pictures of my junk to people while I was in there."

"That's probably for the best," Brendon says, flopping his arm to the side on the mattress.

Shia says, "Or, not even people -- like, multiple. I was only sending stuff to you."

"Oh, so you don't want to give me dick pictures, but you want to shove your tongue -- in my -- mouth -- shit," Brendon says, realizing what he's saying as it pushes forth. The reason he's been honing his avoidance skills recently is because he's given up hope on filtering what he's compelled to say when he's nervous, or just plain losing his mind. Shit. "Sorry."

"Uhm," Shia says, "Yeah, man, 'cause I don't want to stick my tongue anywhere near your mouth shit."

Brendon laughs despite himself, squeezing his eyes tight. He feels ridiculous. Shia makes him feel ridiculous, too big in his own skin and afraid of saying the wrong thing but prone to doing it anyway. He knots his hand in his t-shirt over his stomach and swallows.

Shia says, quieter, "Is that okay?"

Brendon doesn't know. He knows what Shia means, but he doesn't really have an _answer_. Thinking about it confuses him more instead of helps him figure anything out. Three times, he thinks. After three times, hands and lips and impulse, he should know more. "It would be different if I was out there. I think."

It's really fucked up that that's the best Brendon can give.

"Yeah," Shia says, and his exhale drags out, audible and heavy from thousands of miles away. Brendon suddenly wonders if he's in a room alone or other people can hear his end of the conversation. He can't hear anyone. He doesn't know why he cares.

Pushing his fist harder into his stomach, Brendon swallows again. The corner of his mouth twitches, and he eventually says, "I think you're okay, though, yeah."

Shia doesn't say anything. Brendon opens his eyes to study the ceiling again, his focus dedicated to imagining the coil in his stomach unraveling. On the phone, Shia makes a small noise, something indecisive, and Brendon can't hear him breathing with the cellphone connection. He's got excellent ambient noise cancellation, but he knows Shia's still there. They sit and wait for each other.

 

**6**

Shia used to have this recurring dream when he was younger. It wasn't a nightly thing. It was more like, every once in a while, he'd revisit this dream where he had superpowers. He couldn't fly, but he could jump real high. He had this insane, extraordinary ability to reach heights that normal people couldn't -- Superman-style single-bound, let's take a minute to reconsider the phrase 'white boy can't jump' kind of skills, except he also had a crippling fear of heights. What was worse: someone was always chasing him in the dream, and Shia inevitably ran out of places to run, stuck at some dead end where the only way was up, if he could just get it together and jump.

It's while Shia's talking about the details of this dream that he realizes Brendon's fallen asleep on him. Mostly because Brendon actually snores into the receiver. Shia says, "Hello? B? Brendon."

Another snore fails to come but Brendon doesn't answer either. Shia could hang up and call Brendon's cell back to jar him awake with either the ringer or the vibrations against his ear, depending on the setting Brendon's using, but he doesn't. The clock's already getting into the later hours where he is, so Brendon's soon to be pushing dawn in Europe. Shia hangs up his phone, sets it aside, and then lies back to wait for sleep as well.

In a week, this is only the second time Brendon has fallen asleep on him. Shia could take it personally, but he can relate to a demanding schedule. He's kind of surprised Brendon even stays up on the phone some nights, considering their time difference, but in a week (over a week, really, if Shia wants to start keeping an accurate record) Brendon's been the last person he's spoken to at night, even when it's pushing the latest hours for him in France or Germany, and he's only fallen asleep on the phone twice.

Yeah, Shia lets him rest.

At six in the morning, Shia startles awake when his phone buzzes against the nightstand, signaling an incoming message. He paws around the surface blindly, groaning, and it takes him some moments to focus. It's just a text from Brendon, apologizing for the night before. Shia scrubs at his eye with a knuckle, willing his head clear, and then he punches out a quick response, saying, _And now you're waking me up half an hour early. You're bad at this._

Whatever this is. Shia sends the reply but doesn't go back to sleep, because he does have to be up in a few minutes anyway. Another day on the job. He gets in the shower and thinks about Germany while he washes his hair, considering Brendon in the summer heat and wondering if it's humid where he is right now. Whatever this is, Shia thinks, because he doesn't really know what he's doing talking to Brendon every night, but he feels anxious about it in a way that makes him smile instead of making him vaguely nauseous and unsure.

When he gets out of the shower, he finds that Brendon has sent along another message. It's a second apology, this time for waking him, and Shia tells him not to sweat it, noting that he'll probably call Brendon later on in the day. Whatever this is, it's probably killing his phone bill, but he's okay with that too.

;;

Shia gets to set by seven-thirty, at the same time one of the PAs brings back coffee for a handful of people. She notices him, says hello, and then, "Oh, agh, did you want something to drink? I can make another run after I hand these off."

"No, it's cool. I'm good, I like the catering truck stuff anyway," he says, which is somewhat true. He doesn't _not_ like the catering truck coffee, although he wouldn't have even given it a chance if it hadn't been what Brendon loved and constantly drank half of, and then handed off to Shia to finish.

In a week, Shia's had at least one cup of water-y on-set catering truck coffee a day of his own free will. He doesn't know what all of these little things mean, but he's started adding them together anyway.

He still hasn't shaken the sense of anticipation, but there's a new edge to it. He told Brendon how he felt about him on a Tuesday, and every night since then they've spoken on the phone. Their conversations aren't arranged. There is no standing plan to talk until Brendon starts snoring in Shia's ear, but Shia knows what does and what doesn't count as entirely impromptu.

Early on he learned that in this business, you have to, at the very least, know what kind of person you are and what you want before you start convincing other people that they should think something of you too. Not that life doesn't like throwing curveballs at people's heads all the time, but truth of fucking truths, last year Brendon was some dude Shia met at a party who made Shia laugh with how hammered he was, and now? Well, now Brendon continues to make Shia laugh when he gets hammered, but in between those instances, Shia thinks about him a lot more regularly. He thinks about Brendon, and it makes him feel _good_.

That's some freaky shit.

He has the coffee before he goes in for light makeup and hair, and then he knocks out all of his shots before lunch. Bay has a few scenes with the cars and CGI planned for shooting before they wrap New Mexico and go back to California. All of the shots scheduled after lunch are either mostly spacial shots for the machines or focused on the military guys. Shia makes sure to laugh at Tyrese and Josh as he finishes his meal -- poor people who're still working -- and then gets another cup of coffee even though it's hot as balls outside. He keeps craving the taste.

"Where the hell are you going?" Josh asks as Shia tosses out his plate and grabs his things.

Shia smiles, one eye shut against the sun hitting the left side of his face. He's halfway from under the covering of the lunch area, and he says, "Yo, I'm done. The rest of my day is mine."

"Bullshit," Josh says.

Tyrese chimes in, saying, "I bet we could find you something to do."

"Oh, I would love to stick around, but I've gotta get some stuff together," Shia says, walking further and raising his coffee cup as a goodbye. "Need to make sure I've really got a ticket on that plane home."

"And get in some extra calls to whoever he was sending secret messages in Megan's bathroom the other night," Josh says to Tyrese, who grins as he chuckles.

Shia says, "It wasn't like that."

"I can't even hate," Tyrese says, mock-saluting Shia. "Handle yours. Take care of whoever you got going on."

"Yeah, alright," Shia says. "You guys do you, and I'll worry about me."

"You're coming out for the bar tonight, aren't you?" Josh asks, raising his voice as Shia starts to walk away.

"Probably. Call me!" Shia shouts over his shoulder, holding up his free hand. He doesn't stop but instead makes his way back to the hotel, pulling his phone out while he's sitting in the car.

He rings Brendon, who doesn't answer. Shia leaves him a voicemail, and Brendon returns the call fairly quickly. Shia's letting himself into his room when the cell starts to sound in his hand. He answers the call, pressing the button and says, "Hold on!" while he jams his keycard into the door.

Tossing his card, jacket, and backpack onto the bed, he brings the phone up to his ear and says, "Hey! Hi, what's up?"

"Dude, I'm calling _you_ back. You tell me," Brendon says. Shia can hear the smile in his voice. "Although, hey, I'm still sorry about passing out last night. Aw, and wrecking your sleep this morning."

"Chill. It's cool," Shia says. He sits on the edge of his bed, watching himself on the phone in the mirror on the opposite wall. "I had a shorter day today. And it was like shit late there, right? I should've let you go."

"Are you on set now?" Brendon asks.

"Just got back to the hotel. Bay wrapped me for the day when mealtime hit," Shia says. Technically, taking a lunch got delayed until they finished the scenes where Shia was needed, but it was all pretty much the same.

Brendon says, "So you're lounging? That's lucky. We still have to perform in an hour."

He runs down his day for Shia, talking about the interviews and the radio show. None of it sounds too awful, but Brendon mentions that they have had more press than they usual get in one day, so he feels like he's been going non-stop, up all day.

"But I'm sure the part where you're doing all of this in Madrid helps," Shia says.

"Well, yeah," Brendon says, laughing. "But not for much longer. That's kind of the sucky part about touring: only coming to places for a day."

"I'm confident that I've experienced this part of New Mexico enough for one lifetime," Shia says. He's pretty ready to bail on this state. "I think we're doing a semi-party -- a wannbe wrap thing tonight instead of tomorrow."

"About that," Brendon says.

"The party?"

"No, no, flying to California. I was talking to Pete, and he's in town all the time for his show," Brendon says. Shia blinks at himself in the mirror and tries to figure out if the warmth in his chest means he's hoping for something. "You're upstate before you get back to LA, right?"

"For the first few days, yep."

"We have those couple weeks off. I'm thinking I'd rather hang out in Los Angeles than go straight home," Brendon says. He clears his throat, and Shia's thinking, yes, definitely, yes, even before Brendon adds, "If you're not crazy busy, I'll come by the set again. When you come south, I'm saying. Back to LA."

"Dude, fuck, yeah. Come visit me. Hang out at my place."

Brendon hasn't been to Shia's in a couple months. It was different while his band was still recording, but as soon as promotion for the album began in earnest, he was around less. Shia could relate. He'd gone to film the Yvan Attal script in March anyway, and then dates and everything for _Transformers_ got finalized, not to mention the promotion for Indy. He and Brendon had had a few good months where they managed some quality relaxation, and then duty called, but getting some more time in front of the video games sounds promising.

"You sure? You're not swamped with the movie?" Brendon asks.

"B, you came out in the middle of the shoot. It's cool," Shia assures him. "I've got an explosive with your name on it, anyway. I'll call you when I get in town."

;;

They've already got some pick-ups to do, but it's cheaper to re-shoot in California than stay in New Mexico or go elsewhere. Shia doesn't really know. The specifics aren't his job. He's only responsible for making sure he's on location outside of Apple Valley instead of going straight home. Between wrap and travel, Shia's evenings are busier than they have been, shooting mostly day stuff the past few weeks. His schedule conflicts with Brendon's more. They manage a couple brief calls in the middle of the day for Shia but right after Brendon's just come offstage. For one of the calls, he's still catching his breath, huffing as he says, "Dude, like five days. Five days, and then you can't get rid of me." Shia doesn't tell him how excited he is.

He's getting the fake blood and dirt on his face touched up when his phone rings several days later. Shia ducks his head away from a sponge and grabs his cell off a chair, answering, "Are you in my town?"

"As of right this moment. Two moments ago I wasn't on the ground, but now I'm here, unbuckling my seatbelt and hoping this old man hurries up with his carry-on."

"Is someone meeting you?"

"Ashlee's picking me up," Brendon says. "She's driving here, and then I'm helping her run errands. I'm a nice guy."

Shia laughs. "Whatever, nice guy. You also need their car."

"It's this or go to Vegas and drive my own ride out here," Brendon says.

"Don't call it your ride," Shia says, still laughing. "But, look, let me call you back, I'm still working."

"That's fine. When do you get back this way again?" Brendon asks.

"Two days. I'm doing a little ADR already, man. Come to the studio."

"Just let me know when and where. I'm not doing anything."

"Perfect," Shia says. "Alright, I'll catch you later."

He doesn't know if the rest of the day drags or passes too quickly. Shia's caught in this unfortunate stutter where he's anxious for the next two days to pass and wants to savor the moments leading up, uncertain about seeing Brendon. The last time he saw Brendon, he'd kissed him. He still wants to. Brendon knows it. Shia stretches his arms up, takes a breath, and tries to calm himself before Bay hollers action again.

Strangely, the parts of California further south are cooler than their filming location. Then again, Shia's spent the last few days in the open desert, near dry and dead Barstow, and when he gets into the Los Angeles area, he's relieved and nervous and exhausted. He gets home, feeling too tired to call or even set anything aside neatly in favor of shucking off his pants and falling into bed, but he sends Brendon the information for the studio before he passes out, and then stares at his phone like he's not sure how to feel about the decision.

Fuck, Shia thinks. _Fuck_. No, no, he's ready, he tells himself, and then covers his head with his pillow and wills himself to actually sleep.

;;

Out of all the ways his morning could go, one scenario Shia forgets to imagine is that Brendon might show up to the studio _before_ he does. Shia pulls into the tiny parking lot ten minutes early, too, but Brendon's leaning against the fence, holding Jamba drinks in either hand and sipping from one. He notices Shia, squints at his car, and raises his eyebrows as Shia gets out.

He turns off his truck but leaves the door open as he walks the few steps to Brendon, saying, "Look, he really is in town."

He hugs Brendon, minding the cups of juice in his hands, and as Brendon pulls back, he hands one over to Shia. He says, "I hope you didn't have coffee already or something. I called myself being courteous -- bringing morning treats."

"Nah, this is good," Shia says, taking a sip as he closes his car door and pulls his backpack out of the front passenger seat. It's the Mega Mango flavor, with a lot of strawberry, exactly the way he likes it. He looks at Brendon and thinks, fuck, this guy. Brendon. Shia's definitely not ready. "How long have you been here? You have to give me a second, man. I half thought you were messing with me, and I'd get a call, like, 'Psyche, I'm really in Nepal for a week.'"

"What's in Nepal? You do a shitty impression of me," Brendon says pleasantly.

"I'll work on it," Shia says, smiling at him. He can't stop grinning, and it makes him feel like a huge nerd, and so he gestures towards the door into the studio.

Most recording studios are disguised as crappy, rundown buildings or locked up tight if they've actually got a name on the outside. They have to wait for someone to let them in, and then Shia introduces Brendon to the ADR editors, David and Ulrika, who he's met a couple times on location but they don't actually have to be around until post. Most of the engineers, Shia doesn't know. They've got some new people on board this round, so he and Brendon meet them together, and everybody's cool with letting Brendon stick around and watch from outside the booth.

"Not that this is even exciting for you," Shia says. "You're already way more familiar with a studio than I'll ever be."

"I haven't really seen them dubbing dialogue though," Brendon says.

"I basically just talk when they tell me to."

Shia's recording for a good hour and a half. Every time they stop for playback, he looks out to where the boards are, Brendon standing behind them with Ulrika and David, and he makes faces or gives Shia a thumbs up, because he's tragically nerdy. When he doesn't catch Brendon's attention, it's because Brendon's absorbed in conversations with the engineers, gesturing at equipment and doing what he does best. The guy's a talker, particularly when it comes to what he's interested in most, and while they aren't working with the score or anything right now, Brendon does know all about recording. Shia watches him engage the others, thinking, yeah, definitely not ready, but he can't deny that he's glad that Brendon's really here.

They keep at the tracking until Greg, the main recordist, finally suggests they take a coffee break, and the others leave the studio before Shia does. Brendon hangs back, too, and Shia motions for him to come into the booth and stand with him.

"I don't want to get you in trouble with your people," Brendon says, but he's coming into the booth anyway. "You sound good out there."

"Thanks. This isn't the most exciting part of the movie movie-making, sorry," Shia says.

Brendon makes a dismissive noise, grabbing the extra-long cord on Shia's headphones and twisting it around his wrist idly. He says, "I was there for the some of the other stuff, too, remember? It's all good."

"All good," Shia parrots, and he takes off his headphones and puts them on Brendon, who waits a moment and then starts reciting random lines from scenes Shia's covered already. He loops the cord around and holds up his harm, tugging, and Shia wonders if now is when he should try to kiss Brendon again.

Neither of them make a move for it. Shia's not even sure if that's what he's aiming for by having Brendon in here. Still, he's standing in front of Brendon, half a step too close to be safe buddy distance. There's something about it that makes it feel less like regular conversing, as if knowing there's an elephant in the room automatically makes things more theirs, more intimate, just more.

Brendon says another line from the script, and then, "I guess I do a pretty shitty impression of you too."

"We'll work on each other then," Shia says, which he immediately realizes is a really stupid thing to say -- too obvious an innuendo and yet completely accidental. They both laugh at it, Brendon's hand coming down and colliding with Shia's bicep, bumping into his hip, and Shia thinks _now. Right now, yeah,_ and hovers closer, hesitating. Brendon's chin is raised slightly, and Shia's ready, but then one second multiplies, Shia counting the moments, and he loses it.

He backs off, turning his attention to the video screen he's been reading to, and Brendon taps at the headphones before taking them off. Holding them in his hands, he says, "What are you doing tomorrow? More of this?"

"I, uh," Shia says, shrugging his shoulders and regaining his head. "Not until Sunday, I think."

"They don't just want to finish all of the work now?" Brendon asks. He's looking at Shia seriously, brow knit tight.

Shia says, "They've got a couple more scenes already, but more of the dubbing won't have to be done until later."

"So you're free tomorrow?"

"Basically."

"We should do something," Brendon says. "Save me from sitting around at Pete's. I mean, I love that dude, but we had a conversation about baby formula last night."

Shia laughs, taking the headphones when Brendon offers them. He says, "That's kind of fucked."

"Tell me about it," Brendon says.

David and the rest of the crew come back after ten minutes or so, and Shia regrets not taking his opportunity when Brendon steps out of the booth. It was such an opportunity, too. He feels mildly embarrassed throughout the rest of the session, convinced that Brendon probably realized what was going on and thinks Shia's a silly fuck as well. He pushes it out of his head as much as he can (which is nearly impossible with Brendon standing there the whole time), and he's in the booth for another hour before Ulrika clears him to go.

"I'll see you guys in a few days," he says, shaking hands on his way out. "It's definitely Sunday?"

"Yeah, come in around ten," Greg says, and then he turns to Brendon and says. "Thanks for hanging out."

"No, hey, thank you for letting me," says Brendon. He's sincere in his goodbyes, and they all know his name. He and David repeat something that must already be an inside joke that Shia completely missed while he was dubbing, and yet he's not surprised. It impresses him, sometimes, how Brendon gets into people's space and persuades them to like him in barely any time at all.

He doesn't linger as Shia heads for the door though. They walk out of the studio together, Shia's hand bumping into Brendon's arm as they move. He likes the way it feels to think about that -- Brendon leaving with him. He thinks about them being duo, a team, a --

"So, tomorrow," Shia says once they're outside. Brendon has his sunglasses on his head, but he doesn't pull them down, eyes narrowed as he looks to Shia.

He says, "Oh, yeah! Hell, yes. I don't care what we do either, as long as I'm not inside, you know?"

"We could home base it at my place, and then figure it out from there."

"Aren't there festivals and stuff right now?" Brendon asks, scratching his elbow. He unlocks the car -- Pete's car or Ashlee's, Shia doesn't know -- and gets into the driver's side. Shia follows him around, hand braced on the edge of the door as Brendon places his hand on the steering wheel, fingers curling loosely. "Maybe we could check out Santa Monica."

"What, like the pier?" Shia asks.

Brendon shrugs. "Whatever. We don't have to do the pier, but maybe there's something in the area."

"We could always hang out now," Shia says.

"I promised Ashlee I'd bring her car back and take her to Valencia."

Shia smirks. "Pregnant lady chauffeur?"

"I didn't realize what I getting myself into," Brendon says, but he's laughing. "Pete's got some meetings or something."

"Mhm," Shia says. "Alright, tomorrow?"

"You got it," Brendon says. Shia taps the side of the car, preparing to leave, but as he steps back, Brendon's hand shoots out and grabs his forearm. "Wait, wait. Question: planning things -- is this a date?"

"Wow," Shia says, exhaling around the word. He turns his face down, smiling into his bicep. He hadn't even gotten that far yet, but Brendon's still touching his wrist, and Shia thinks about how he definitely wants to take Brendon out tomorrow. _Now_ , Shia thinks, cuing himself, and then cranes forward, bringing his hand from the car door to Brendon's face and kissing him with his mouth closed. Brendon hisses or maybe it's a gasp, maybe he's surprised, but he catches on, and this time Shia parts his lips. It's been almost a month since the last time they did this, and it's the first time since Shia told Brendon that he kind of wanted it.

Retreating, Shia smirks at Brendon, ready to laugh at himself, and he says, "I meant to do that earlier, inside."

Brendon licks his lips, and a smile starts to tug at his mouth. He says, "Um. Alright. So, yeah."

"Dude." Shia leans forward, resting his head on Brendon's shoulder momentarily. Standing straight again, he says, "I'm just. I'm excited that you're here."

"Yeah," Brendon says, and they stare at each other, goofy and awkward until Brendon makes a move and darts in quick to kiss the corner of Shia's mouth. He whispers, "I'm coming over early tomorrow."

Shia's okay with that.

 

**7**

Ashlee's ready to go when Brendon gets back to the house. She's pushing the last piece of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich into her mouth and licking the excess off her fingers. Brendon comes in, saying, "Sorry I'm back a little late. No excuses, it's all -- "

"Brendon, you're not driving Miss Daisy," Ashlee says, cutting him off, and then she slips on her sandals and grabs her bag.

The thing about hanging with Ashlee is that a few months ago, she and Brendon had yelled at each other drunkenly over loud club music about their mutual secret love for Abba. They'd bonded over Bacardi and excitement about the upcoming _Mamma Mia!_ movie, and now Ashlee's getting ready to be someone's mom, and Brendon can't relate to that at all. It's generally okay, because she's crash-coursing the whole thing, too, but it still strikes Brendon, especially because he doesn't see her regularly, that things can change so fast. They still have those things in common, but Brendon keeps thinking about added responsibility. Brendon only has to worry about himself, and some days he's not sure he's even got that hang of that completely.

In the car, Ashlee says, "I keep track of this thing based on whether or not I can see my feet when I look down. There are some toes still, but I have to work to really see them."

"But pretty soon you'll need other people to help you confirm that your feet are still there?" Brendon asks.

"Oh, god, I'm so not looking forward to it," she says, squeezing her eyes shut for a second. "Pete's said we can just get one of those convex mirrors like they have in parking lots sometimes to see around corners. I can wear it on my wrist and just hold it out."

She laughs at that a little. Brendon asks, "What, is he filming tonight?"

"Yeah," she says. "Sometimes I go, but my cousin wanted me to come out today to pick up some stuff that she really didn't want to mail for whatever reason. Thanks for keeping me company, by the way."

"Of course. It's my pleasure. Thanks for letting me stay with you guys."

"Sure! And this car is actually pretty much all yours while you're here, but the third one is in the shop until tomorrow," Ashlee says. "You said you were going into the studio today, right? Were you recording something? You might have told me."

"Oh, no, I wasn't. I went to watch Shia do ADR," Brendon says, and he tells her about what it was like in the booth. She's done movies and television. She was familiar with dubbing dialogue before recording music, and they talk about the differences between the two. Brendon's never done movies, though he's kind of thought about it. Ashlee hasn't done any acting in a while. She sort of misses it.

"Are you going back in tomorrow?" she asks.

"We're just hanging out tomorrow. He doesn't have to work."

Brendon scratches his forearm and thinks about sitting in the parking lot. He doesn't tell her about that part, gnawing on his lip to keep himself from grinning. He hadn't yet taken a moment to replay the scene, but it still looks good in Brendon's mind now, still makes his stomach fluttery. It's a small secret he thinks he's enjoying.

Ashlee's cousin has a lot of childcare stuff that she bought but doesn't want to give to her during the baby shower or anything. They end up hanging out for a while, a few hours, and Brendon eats dinner with Ashlee, her cousin, and her cousin's family. They discuss the baby, and then gossip about relatives, and Ashlee has wine but says that, honestly, she can't wait until she can go out with her friends again and not be the sober one. It's an okay time. Brendon laughs with them, and whenever they get absorbed in something for which he doesn't have a whole lot of input, he pulls out his phone and sends some messages.

Every time Brendon gets a new text from Shia, he remembers that they're going out tomorrow. They're going out, and it's kind of a date. It's a date with a guy, a date with _Shia_ , Brendon thinks, his brain taking him through the realization process over and over, mildly disbelieving. He can maybe admit that he's been kind of preoccupied with Shia lately, and it's scary and kind of cool, and they're going out tomorrow. Brendon almost can't wrap his head around it.

;;

The one drawback to the plan to spend the day with Shia is that Brendon gets to his house in the morning, and they still don't have an agenda. Los Angeles is a big place. There's probably an endless number of events happening, and Brendon's blanking on most of them. He sits in Shia's living room while Shia scrubs a dry towel over his hair. Brendon stares at a wet patch on his t-shirt, where the fabric has touched damp skin and soaked through.

He says, "There's always the beach."

"Maybe," Shia says. "You want to go to breakfast first? Or, whatever, it's almost lunch. Let's get food and decide."

"Alright. Wait, should we -- is your dad here? Should we invite him?" Brendon asks, standing.

Shia tosses the towel on the couch and says, "No, he left already -- finally. I talked to him like last week. He's on this new kick where he's trying to get me to come out there."

"You're not going to?" Brendon asks, cracking an amused half-smile as Shia grabs his keys.

"Right. I want to spend time camping in Montana," Shia says, clearly indicating that he'd rather do anything but. "I just spent a few days in Barstow, and I think I kind of get what it's like."

Brendon says, "I'd go just to see the tepee."

"I've got pictures. I mean, I've _seen_ it, I just haven't been."

"You have pictures? Oh, you gotta pull them out."

Shia laughs and says, "Alright, when we get back. Don't get geeked about it either and tell him, because then he'll want you to come out there too."

"He lives in a _tepee_ ," Brendon says, following Shia out of the house. "I've always been stoked on it."

The radio blasts loud when Shia turns on his truck. He cuts the volume some so that they can hear one another, and on the way to find food, Shia tells Brendon about how his Dad has always loved the whole outdoors thing. He's mentioned it before, but Brendon never stops finding it pretty hilarious that Jeffrey's so dedicated that even going to Burning Man and hanging out in the middle of nowhere with those people felt like selling out.

"He's not kidding, is what's funny," Shia says, as if Brendon isn't already slapping his hand on his thigh, he's cracking up so hard.

Their search for food and a lot of indecision regarding their appetites brings them all the way into Hollywood. Looking for anything so close to Melrose Blvd seems like a poor choice, but Shia parks across the street from Canter's on Fairfax, and even in the early afternoon it's generally empty. The food is decent but not amazing. The pickles taste weird, but it's so slow inside that their conversation feels kind of loud even though they're speaking at normal volume. Their waitress checks on them a few times, but for the most part, it's them and some hot sandwiches. The whole scene seems run-of-the-mill for them, minus the way Brendon keeps running _this might be a date, it's not a date, this is a date_ through his head, folding the corner of his napkin and ripping it off.

He's never been on a date with another guy. Brendon hasn't been out on too many official dates at all, and he confuses himself wondering, crap, who's supposed to pay in this situation, but then they learn that Canter's prefers cash, Brendon doesn't have any on him. Shia handles the bill, and standing at he register, Brendon notices a flyer for a show at the Music Box.

"Do you listen to Wolf Parade?" Brendon asks, pointing out the poster.

"You want to see a show?" Shia tucks his change in his wallet can considers the poster. "We could do that. Dude, for the record, I was going to suggest we hit Dodgers Stadium, but it's all away games this weekend."

"Are there home games next week?"

"Of course, man, we should go. I've got season tickets; we'll go," Shia says and uses that as a clever segue to mention that the game's on television. He wants to watch it. Brendon doesn't actively watch baseball, but there's nothing about picking up beers and lounging out of the sun that doesn't sound like a viable option.

It doesn't start until after five though, and the show is at nine that evening. Since they're so close to Melrose, they walk the blocks for no reason in particular, checking out the shops. The paparazzi aren't around right away, or at least it takes Brendon a while to notice them. Tabloids are something he's never had to worry about. He knows Pete deals with it, and Shia's told him about how he's less and less indifferent to them since they're around more often. They get coffee drinks, and Shia points them out to Brendon as they cross the street. Brendon stares one camera down, just because, facing off with some random man's telephoto lens. He's used to attention when he's performing or appearing somewhere with his band, but this is different.

"Smile," Shia says, leaning in to say it closer to Brendon's ear.

Brendon remembers himself then -- where he's at and whom he's with in public. Shia touches Brendon's arm, a brief and meaningless gesture to anchor Brendon and point him down a side street that leaves his shoulder tingling.

"We'll go around the block and get back to the car," he says, and Brendon follows blindly, looking over his shoulder once to see if anyone follows.

The eerie watched sensation doesn't vanish until they get to a grocery store to buy beer. They buy two cases, each paying for one, which is something Brendon keeps noting and wondering why he didn't get a straight answer from Shia the day before. Is this or isn't it? Should or shouldn't it be? How much does Brendon even want today to be somehow special in comparison to every other day they've ever spent entertaining one another?

The answer fails to come in the car or when they're in Shia's living room, set up in front of his flatscreen, sitting close enough that legs touch but not really _deliberately_. Brendon's never been more awkward, so he makes himself stop dwelling on it and just watch the game. Shia knows everything there is to know about the Dodgers. Every time they've watched a game together, Shia runs down which players are performing well and why, and Brendon asks questions and gets invested in the action alongside him. The team's playing in Arizona, and during one of the commercials Shia talks about the time he tried to get Hideo Nomo to autograph his ball and was blown off.

"I was so moded. Here I was, excited about this dude and thinking he'd be real cool, and he totally left me hanging," Shia says. This close, all Brendon has to do is turn his head to look at Shia's face, and each time Shia licks his lips, Brendon thinks about kissing him. "I met Brett Butler though, and he tried to patch it up. He signed. Turned my whole world around, because my face was probably dragging the ground, it was so long."

"He probably thought you were a charity case," Brendon said.

Shia drops his head back when he laughs. He says, "Man, maybe. I don't care. I got Brett Butler's autograph. Nomo can eat my dick though."

"He'd probably sign it for you now."

"Fuck that," Shia says, and Brendon crosses the few inches between them and connects their mouths. He has to angle his body in to really make it work. Shia's hand comes to rest over Brendon's abs, ghosting under his ribs. Brendon constantly forgets how much he enjoys kissing, and they're better and better at it the less they hesitate. Shia sighs, a small, "mm," escaping him, and Brendon nudges his face against Shia's cheek when he pulls back, panting softly.

Brendon doesn't even care if it's a date. He sits back more, saying, "I'm gonna buy the tickets for tonight."

"You sure?"

"Why not? You got lunch; I got this," Brendon says.

They do a trade-off: Brendon's buzzed by the time they roll out to Hollywood again, so he opts not to drink more at the show in order to drive them back to Shia's place. He'll need to drive himself back to Pete's anyway. They show up a little late, after any line outside has already gone inside and stand in the back, closer to the bar. Shia buys a drink and lets Brendon sip off the top. Brendon eyes it for a second when Shia holds it up, but then he tastes it -- just a regular Jack and coke -- and then halfway through the second opener, Shia throws his arm around Brendon's shoulder and nods along with the music.

Wolf Parade is a great fucking time. Brendon doesn't even have all of their music, but he's liked what he's heard and the stuff he isn't familiar with plays just as nicely. Shia drops his arm when he leans in to say, "Their drummer's pretty solid."

"He's good, yeah," Brendon shouts back. He's happy, grooving through a good show with even better company. He sneaks a few more glances at Shia throughout the set and decides that he's definitely going to make out with Shia before he takes off for the night.

He sticks to his plans, too, grabbing on to the back of Shia's shirt once they're back in his driveway. He doesn't want to go inside. Not yet, he thinks, even though Shia's got a sort of glimmer thing going on in his eyes, maybe tipsy, maybe just pleased.

"So."

"What?" Brendon asks.

"Huh," Shia says. Brendon's not sure what that means, but he comes forward, so Brendon doesn't really concern himself with extra details. Shia's mouth is soft, pliant. Shia touches Brendon's hip, and this isn't even the gayest thing he's ever done, technically, but it feels important. He steps back.

"I'm gonna go back before Pete falls asleep," Brendon says, though he knows Pete goes to bed late. He's been trying his whole slumber corrective thing lately. He could be asleep; Brendon can't know for sure.

Shia frowns, but the look disappears from his face as quickly as it arrives. He says, "Sure, yeah," and then asks, "Are you coming over tomorrow?"

"Probably," Brendon says. "Unless Pete tells me about something going on, then you can come out with us, maybe."

"Alright," Shia says. "Let me know."

He flexes his fingers on Brendon's side and lets his hand fall. Brendon goes to Pete's car, and Shia watches him pull off.

;;

When Brendon gets in for the night, Pete's playing a video game about counting sheep. That is literally the point of the game. It's sort of a math thing, but it's also sort of not. He proceeds to explain the rules of the game while annoying and persistent sheep bah in the background as soon as Brendon comes into the house.

"So, yeah," Pete says. "I've been playing this for like an hour."

"What the hell, dude?" Brendon asks, laughing and coming around to look at his computer screen.

"I can't get over how counter-productive having someone play this is, considering why people usually count sheep," Pete says.

Brendon asks, "Didn't you just make a shirt like that?"

"Yeah, did I give you one? I think I have an extra prototype."

"That's cool," Brendon says. He watches Pete click his cursor over sheep, setting the cars keys on the desk next to Pete.

"Thanks," Pete says. "You're back late. Or is it early? Was it a good night?"

"Every time I've come in, you or Ashlee have asked me that."

"We're practicing for when our kid gets older, and you're supposed to stay in their business but do it in subtle ways. You know, just in case the rugrat starts hanging out with people who smoke crack or something." Pete says, and he glances away from the screen a moment to look at Brendon. "Are we cramping your style?"

"It's just funny," Brendon says.

Pete snorts. "Whatever, skip subtlety. I'm just asking if you were out getting laid and then sneaking home late. Avoiding morning afters. I've been there."

Brendon looks at the clock in the bottom corner of the screen and sees that it's past 2AM. The show must have run later than he was thinking, but Brendon hasn't really paid too much attention to the time until now. He says, "No, I went to see Wolf Parade headline Henry Fonda."

"And you didn't meet some friendly indie pop chicks?" Pete asks, and he sighs when the computer screen flashes 'game over' at him. He spins in his chair, looking up to Brendon directly now. "Was the show worth it, at least?"

"Yeah, man. I went with Shia -- "

"Oh, oh, the actor dude -- "

"Yeah."

"And you _still_ didn't meet some girls?" Pete's eyebrows shoot up, surprised. He shakes his head, and says, "Next time? Grab two. Or four. He was in _Transformers_."

"Noted," Brendon says, laughing. He thinks about standing at the show with Shia -- kissing him before and after. Brendon probably could've stayed the night. He doesn't tell Pete about that. "What are you up to tomorrow? You free? Is that why you're up playing computer games? Where's Ashlee?"

"She's sleeping already," Pete says. "I've got a meeting with Pam about this picture book project. But there's a promo party on Sunset if you're looking for something to do."

"Ehh," Brendon says, undecided. "Maybe."

"Whatever you're into. You can come if you want." Pete slaps his thighs and stands. He pushes his hand through Brendon's hair to make Brendon jerk his head sideways. Pete laughs, saying, "I'm going to bed, pretty boy. Oh, you know what? You should probably just keep the car keys too. I got the other SUV back earlier, so we're set."

"Nice. Thanks," Brendon says, stepping aside to let Pete pass. "I'll figure out what I'm doing to tomorrow."

"Sweet." Pete gives Brendon a lazy thumbs up, and then waves at Brendon, flapping his hand noncommittally. "I'll catch you in the morning or something."

"Night," Brendon says.

After Pete disappears, he pulls out his cell and sends Shia a message to let him know he's made it safely. There isn't a need, really, but Brendon does it and then heads to bed, drifting off to thoughts of Shia's arm around his shoulders, body solid at Brendon's side.

;;

The more Brendon thinks about a sponsored party, the less appealing it becomes. He mentions it to Shia on the phone when he starts on his journey over to Shia's house, but in the twenty minutes it takes to get there, Brendon's lost all interest in carpets and photographers. Shia's dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, and he looks perfectly happy in that. Brendon thinks about both of them having to change, and he just loses interest. He blames the heat.

"Do you want to come with me to the range?" Shia asks.

"Um,"' Brendon says, thinking about their other options and shrugs. "I guess. Yeah, let's do it."

He's only been shooting with Shia one other time. It's something Shia's really into, and the first time they went, he kept trying to show Brendon how it was done as if Brendon had never shot a gun before. Brendon hadn't shot anything in a long time, granted, but he could still remember the way to do it, and after he'd managed to hit the targets without too much trouble, Shia stayed on Brendon's case about how he didn't know him at all, and Brendon could have told Shia that he knew how to kill a man in one go.

Brendon has generally been turned off of firearms since going hunting as a kid, but the range is different. There are no animals to worry about. Shia keeps at it thanks to Spielberg, and Brendon had been considering trying to take him to pick out a new rifle for his birthday once they both had some free time. It was going to be a belated birthday present, but then D.C. happened. Brendon hasn't really thought about it again until now.

They spend a couple hours at the range, sweating and firing at targets. Shooting always leaves Brendon's arms buzzing from recoil and enduring numerous small explosions. His limbs haven't stopped thrumming by the time they return to Shia's place. Brendon bounces on the balls of his feet in the kitchen while Shia breaks out a couple bottles of Powerade for them, Brendon laughing at his story about his mom in the grocery store one day, and as Shia tips his head back, drinking, Brendon steps into his immediate space and lays his hand over the skin swooping out from Shia's neck and into shoulder.

"So," Brendon says unhelpfully once Shia looks at him. He sucks his lip into his mouth and drags it out again slowly, on edge, and then Shia says, "Um," but he meets Brendon halfway.

Brendon doesn't want to go to any industry event at all when he could be doing this instead. Both of his hands rest on Shia's shoulders after he sets down his drink. He feels like some girl at a high school dance for a second, and then he and Shia walk themselves to the couch, flopping down. When Shia crawls over his legs, Brendon feels like something totally different, curling his fingernails against Shia's skin where his t-shirt has flipped over itself across his spine. The skin at the small of Shia's back is sort of damp, and Brendon gasps into his mouth when Shia tests out jutting his hips down and sliding against Brendon's body.

Brendon enjoys sex. He really, _really_ enjoys it. It's always exciting, and yet somehow the prospect of getting it has never made him react quite this way. He gets hard, feeling the arousal in him grow, and he can't tell how much of the adrenaline rush comes from getting some friction or if it's more that he's with Shia, that they're doing this. Shia's shoulders lift. He raises over Brendon, maintaining the kiss as long as possible, until he needs to look down as he paws for Brendon's belt, which is suddenly striking Brendon as a pretty poor sartorial decision.

If Shia could get his fingers in Brendon's pants, that would be ideal. He digs his head into the couch cushions, arching.

"Hold on," Shia says, his voice rougher than Brendon expects. He squeezes his eyes shut as Shia fumbles with pulling his belt apart. "Fuck, dude."

"Want me to do it?" Brendon asks.

Shia pulls his hand away, pinning Brendon's hip down instead and Brendon reaches to work his jeans open himself. Half-smirking, mouth quirked up on one side, Shia huffs and then says, "I'm fucking up, sorry."

"You're fine," Brendon says.

"I just keeping thinking about, you know." He stares somewhere around Brendon's stomach rather than at Brendon's face. "You're already past this."

"It's not like I've fucked a bunch of guys," Brendon says, frowning.

It might sound more defensive than he means, because Shia says, "Not like that. Sorry. I'm feeling way fucking new."

"I've been on the, like -- I received or whatever, but not," Brendon says, thinking about. it. Darren had gotten his pants open for him, and they hadn't kissed after. "I mean, okay, I gave him a handjob."

"You didn't tell me that," Shia says, bringing his eyes to Brendon's finally. His thumb slides along Brendon's skin in short strokes. Brendon's stomach keeps jumping, warm and fluttery.

"Sit up," Brendon says. He pushes at Shia's arm, and Shia sits taller, leaning back on his heels. Brendon slides his hands over Shia's thighs, traveling higher. "It was pretty fast. Sloppy. We both performed, and it was a festival, so it wasn't like having to go to a new city right away. We could relax."

Shia doesn't speak. He breathes in shallowly, staring at Brendon's hand and stealing quick looks at his face. Brendon tries not to blink too much under the scrutiny.

He says, "I told you I was drinking, yeah? It was that kind of night. Him and me -- we're both sort of flirty in the same way. All hands."

Brendon moves his hand over Shia's cock, obviously hard against his palm. He rubs his hand over Shia and smiles at the muted groan he earns, Shia trying to restrain himself. Brendon recalls hanging with Darren that night in Milwaukee, how he kept biting the side of his hand and praying he could stay quiet while Darren sucked him off, because it had seemed really important to do at the time. He can't remember why.

"I don't remember everything," Brendon says, undoing Shia's belt. It proves infinitely easier than their attempts at Brendon's own. "He'd done it before, though. I could tell because he just went for it. Good mouth for -- Hey, help me out."

He pats Shia's leg, tugging at his waistband with one hand. Shia shifts up on his knees, and Brendon watches him push at his pants enough to pull his cock, and, fuck, Brendon thinks. They're definitely doing this. His mouth is dry. He swallows and presses the heel of his hand against his own cock as he watches Shia stroke himself.

"I wanna --" Brendon says, his fingers colliding with Shia's in their switch-off. He starts overhanded and has to change his grip, squeezing the base and taking time to circle the head with his thumb when he pulls the length. Brendon marvels at his own hand and swallowing against the swell in his throat when he notices that Shia's looking at him with hooded eyes.

"Then what?" Shia asks. It takes a couple moments for Brendon to realize he's referring to Darren. "You never told me if you liked it."

"I don't know," Brendon says, squeezing Shia's cock, and Shia grunts, bracing a hand on the back of the couch.

He says, "You know."

"I came in his mouth. C'mere." Brendon snatches at the front of Shia's shirt, urging him down, and his grip falters while they kiss, open-mouthed and hungry. His cock is painfully hard in his pants, and Shia's still hard in his hand, and Brendon thinks, yeah, he likes this. He definitely likes it.

"B," Shia mutters.

"My messy handjob was more like a favor. Like being polite," Brendon says in a rush, and a laugh kicks from Shia. He's breathless, face reddening, and it's somehow one of the hottest things Brendon's seen in a long time. Shia touches his forehead to Brendon's, kissing the bridge of his nose before he raises up again and decides to go for Brendon's pants.

Brendon sighs, curling his toes against the side of the couch. Shia touches him experimentally, fingers too delicate at first, but he tightens up when Brendon curses under his breath. He's trapped between Shia's legs, unsure of whether he should try to watch their hands on one another or hold eye contact, Brendon giving up and closing his eyes. He grits his teeth as he gets closer. Shia gets there first, come catching on Brendon's hand and messing his stomach. His hand falls from Shia, kneading at his thigh again instead, and it doesn't take very long for Brendon to follow him over the edge, moaning and digging blunt nails into Shia's jeans.

Between the two of them, they're gross now. Clothes sticky and soiled, Brendon opens his eyes to find Shia watching him his with eyes wider than usual, and then he falls forward and kisses Brendon regardless of how it probably makes the mess worse. They're on a more even playing field now, Brendon thinks, and he cards his clean hand into Shia's hair and just enjoys it.

 

 

**8**

Brendon has no shame. Shia thinks it's kind of hilarious. After Shia finishes his second ADR session on Sunday, they have lunch in Studio City and notice photographers outside. It's still weird to Shia that they show up to snap candids of him buying cigarettes or getting gas the way he knew could happen and to bigger names than him just last year. He'd never known it first hand until recently. Shia knows he's successful, and he's glad he can support himself, but it's taking him a while to shake the notion of anonymity. He doesn't really have it these days. Once upon he was just a working actor. Now people care about which brand of bottled whiskey he buys.

They eat, ignoring the photographers outside, and while Shia's settling the bill, Brendon exits to talk to the men standing across the street. Shia sees him shake hands with one or two, offering his Altoids. Shia has no idea what he's doing, but he laughs to himself, leaves a tip for their server, and then walks outside and across the street to the commotion. The camera flashes double when he comes over.

"Hey, Shia," one of them says, and the other thing that blows about the paparazzi is how they're always trying to talk over one another. One starts and the others begin chirping too.

Shia says, "Hey," and points at a video camera amongst the SLRs. "What's this? TMZ?"

"We're wondering what you guys are up to?"

"Eating, man. We're at a restaurant," Brendon says, and he turns to Shia. "I was trying to learn names. I've got Rob, Timothy, and Randy so far. This one won't say, and -- who're you?"

"Queen Elizabeth," a guy in frayed green cap says, moving his camera just to the side to give them a smug grin.

"No, shit! I've always wanted to meet the Queen," Brendon says.

"Did you enjoy your meal?" Randy or Rob asks.

Shia nods, saying, "Yeah, I had a steak. This guy went for the veggie wrap. He doesn't eat like I do."

"Smaller appetite," Brendon explains, rubbing his stomach for emphasis.

They indulge the cameras for a few minutes, bullshitting conversation. Shia finally says they've got to go if they're serious about making their party.

"What party?"

"You'll probably find it," Shia says as they get into the car. "It's in the ghetto, though."

Brendon laughs. He hands off the rest of his mints before they take off, telling one of the guys that he wants him to have them, really. He needs them more than Brendon does, Brendon says. The guy calls him an asshole, and Brendon nods sagely, thanking him like it's a cherished compliment.

"Dude, you shouldn't encourage them," Shia says, sticking an unlit cigarette in his mouth and speeding around a corner. At least that's what his publicist's always telling him. Shia doesn't actually give much of a shit about those people.

That kind of antic is pretty par for the course with Brendon. He keeps doings things just left of what Shia expects, from pretending to tolerate people that work for tabloids, to doing things like jerking Shia off when they're unexpectedly stuck in traffic on the PCH coming back from Malibu one night. He won't stay the night at Shia's house, but he'll fool around with Shia, get their clothes messed up and then sit cross-legged in his boxers on Shia's washer while he gets them clean. He'll come to house parties after he finishes press for the band's Rock Band tour announcement and beatbox for Shia's friends, the others encouraging Shia to try one of his freestyles, and yet Brendon completely fails to have a clue about legitimate underground rap, although that's a conversation they've touched on before, briefly.

"Rich Boy doesn't count ever," Shia says, "I don't care how many remixes people did for 'Throw Some Ds.'"

"Alright, then play me something that counts, smart guy," Brendon challenges. They spend a while listening to Mr. Lif and Bus Driver, and then Brendon reminds Shia that he unironically loves Daughtry, so fuck him and his cred.

It isn't that Shia's surprised that he likes hanging out with Brendon or that they get along well. Brendon's already met his wacky parents before now, and he has tried to scope out Shia's life and then figure out if he fits. He belongs. What surprises him when he stops to contemplate everything is that things are _still_ good. Even with different elements of their friendship developing, for the most part Shia sits back and thinks, okay. Maybe this is okay.

;;

"How'd you see it?" Brendon says into his phone when Shia comes out of the bathroom. Shia dries his hands on his thighs, swiping them over denim. "Get off the computer, Ross. It's no good for you."

Shia looks at him, questioning with his expression, and Brendon holds up a finger. He's got his hip cocked, leaning against Shia's bedroom dresser. He cracks his knuckles as he speaks on the phone, tucking the phone between ear and shoulder. Shia sits on the edge of the bed and watches Brendon fidget until he finally ends the call and sets his phone down.

"Ryan was telling me about seeing the paparazzi video online," Brendon says.

Shia raises and eyebrow. "He keeps up with that stuff?"

"He claims," Brendon says, raising his finger again and tapping it against his chin, "that people just send him things. Why they send him things about me, I don't know."

Shia shakes his head, amused, and then holds out his hands to motion Brendon closer. He leaves his arms extended, tugging on Brendon's belt loops once he's within reach. They stand with their legs intersecting, Brendon standing over one of Shia's knees, so that only one of his legs occupies the space between Shia's legs. Shia releases belt loops and drums his fingers on Brendon's hips. He's gazing upward, Brendon looking down at Shia with one hand pinching the fabric at shoulder of his shirt and the other crossed over his chest, tucked under the outstretched arm.

Brendon raises both arms when Shia sneaks his hands higher, bunching Brendon's shirt over his wrists. He kisses Brendon's stomach, a quick, inconsequential press of lips that makes Brendon tilt his head.

"What?" Brendon asks when Shia just looks at him, scratching lightly at Brendon's warm skin underneath his shirt.

"Nothing," Shia says, and then, "Can I blow you?"

Brendon exhales in a rush, caught off. He smiles, narrow-eyed and says, "That's the most build-up I've ever had to someone asking if they can suck my dick."

"Shut up," Shia says, bumping his elbow into Brendon. 

It's not nearly hard enough to cause any pain, but Brendon runs hands through his hair and says, "Yeah, yeah. Do it."

He pulls his t-shirt off and flings it aside, moving to crawl up the bed and turn around to prop himself on his elbows. Shia follows after him. He's probably going to be terrible, and he's probably going to embarrass himself in front of Brendon, but he wants to go for it anyway.

Shia's still in his clothes, and Brendon's half-naked, lifting his hips to let Shia pull his pants down on his legs some once he undoes them. They've only been at this a few days -- a week and a half. Shia's still stopped by the sight of Brendon's naked skin, starting at his cock and letting his eyes travel the expanse of Brendon's stomach, up to his face. He drags his palm over Brendon's stomach and moves in to kiss him, hunched over awkwardly and appreciating the way Brendon's mouth falls open for him.

"Stop stalling," Brendon says, his voice serious. Shia laughs.

"Chill out," Shia says. He nudges Brendon's chin, and Brendon ducks his head and then tosses it back to dodge.

Brendon's only half hard yet. Shia rubs his hand over Brendon's cock, smoothing along the length of it, and then he wraps his fingers around Brendon to jerk him in earnest. Brendon gnaws on his lip and breathes carefully through his nose. When he first closes his mouth around the head, Shia focuses on how Brendon smells and the saltbitter taste of skin. He remembers to sheath his teeth as Brendon rests a hand on the back of his head, flexing his fingers.

He wants to push, Shia can tell. For some reason, it's that detail -- those strained and anxious stutters of movement that make him really acknowledge that he's going down on Brendon. Six months ago, if someone would have told Shia he'd voluntarily take a mouthful of cock, he probably wouldn't have believed that person. He also may not have expected it to be Brendon, but Shia holds onto Brendon's waist with one hand, stroking the base of Brendon's cock with the other as he covers the head with the flat of his tongue. He takes Brendon's vocal cues, chasing after the pleased sighs and deep groans, and Brendon pats him hard on the shoulder to warn him that he's close.

Brendon's come streaks his stomach. Shia stops using his mouth but keeps pulling all the way through the aftershocks, and Brendon mutters, "Shit, shit," echoing himself until it sounds like he's making faint shushing noises.

Shia wipes his lips with the back of his hand and says, "So. Now my mouth tastes like dick."

Brendon laughs, chest heaving a little. He's still trying to catch his breath, and he grabs blindly for Shia's free hand.

"Come up here," he says. "Come here, so I can --"

Brendon abandons the sentence in favor of just getting his fingers on Shia's pants, freeing his cock and letting Shia fuck the circle of his hand. It's while Shia's working his hips, face tucked against Brendon's neck, that Brendon clears his throat and asks, "Do you want to come to Vegas with me? I have to pack for tour again."

Shia comes with a full body jolt, muscles tensing, and Brendon waits. He squeezes Shia's cock and breathes softly into his hair. Shia rolls back, flopping out on the mattress next to Brendon.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I want to hang in your town."

;;

Shia's seen Las Vegas. He went with his mother once when he was younger, he's been a couple times for press, and he went with some friends not too long after he turned twenty-one. It wasn't his birthday party, but it was something that people kept telling him he had to do, so he did. He didn't know Brendon then, because he met Brendon during his fifth trip to Vegas that September for the VMAs. He'd gotten to announce _Indiana Jones_ during the show, and then he'd crashed a few parties -- half of them after Brendon literally ran into him in a hallway. They'd exchanged numbers and hung out again before the weekend ended under the auspices of rectifying their failure to find people to take home. Really, they'd ended up having chips and sandwiches, and Brendon swore he'd never drink again, but he'd been lying about that part.

Riding out of California, Shia goes over that weekend in his mind, mentally reliving the heat of the desert, and he concedes to himself that that was a probably a random way to meet someone who became a close friend. Then again, in entertainment, much of what's considered mundane probably isn't regular for other people. Shia looks at Brendon in the driver's seat, listening to him sing along with the radio. He switches the station just to throw Brendon off.

"Hey! What the hell," Brendon says, slapping Shia's hand away from the tuner. "I'm jamming over here."

"It's my car," says Shia.

"Not fair; I'm the one driving," Brendon says, but when he flips back to the song he was singing, he doesn't join in again. He turns the volume down some.

"Is your roommate there? Shane?" Shia asks, reclining the passenger seat and lying back.

Brendon nods. "Yep. If not, he might be staying with his girlfriend. They trade off a lot."

"He's not going to mind that I'm there?" Shia folds arm arm behind his head, looking to Brendon from below. He can see the curve of his chin clearly, and Brendon does a double take, glancing all the way around to see Shia lying back the second time.

"Are you -- you're not worried, are you?" Brendon asks.

Shia's not sure. They haven't talked about it much between the two of them, let alone figuring out the words to explain it to other people. He's met Shane only two other times. Shia's heard quite a bit about him, his video work, and the tacky scarves he and Brendon routinely subject their dog to for fun, but Shia has no idea how Shane might react to Shia and Brendon while they're doing... this. This thing.

Brendon keeps trying to peek over his shoulder, waiting for Shia to say something. Shia says, "I'm checking, I guess."

"Don't worry about it," Brendon says, rolling his shoulders as if he's pep-talking himself. "We'll hang out, you can help me stuff things into a bag, and if Shane has something to say, then, like." Brendon shrugs. "Shane's cool though."

Shia dwells for the next several miles, wondering what Brendon might say to his roommate if -- no, when he notices that Brendon and Shia aren't only drinking and patting each other on the shoulder like before. He gets the nervous sinking feeling that he'd thankfully been without the past few days, comfortable in their isolation as they got comfortable with each other. But... Shia also still wants to go with Brendon to his house.

He closes his eyes and naps until they stop for gas and Brendon wants to trade places.

When they get to Brendon's place, Brendon taps the window and says, "See, he's not even here."

Shia parks the truck, and as soon as they open the doors, the dry heat hits them and doesn't quit. According to the truck's thermometer, Las Vegas is twenty degrees hotter than Los Angeles. Shia doesn't know how Brendon doesn't give up and spend all of his time stationary and burning whenever he's back home. They hustle their bags inside, and Brendon leaves the shades closed to allow the A/C to cool things off quicker. He and Shia lounge in this cave of a home, Brendon giving Shia the short tour of his place, and then settling on the couch to waste time watching television, which is a pullout, Brendon mentions.

He says, "For instance, if we wanted to watch TV in bed right now? We could, because there's one under us."

"Convenient," Shia says, laughing as Brendon goes on to tell him about his attempts to watch TV in bed for hours on his days off. He also tries to get Shane to bring him sandwiches on those days. Shane never does. Brendon's heart is always a little broken by it.

For dinner they go out for pizza. The temperature has come down some, but not enough to stop qualifying as hot-as-fuck, and Brendon says they should've had the food delivered. Instead of taking the pizza back to the house, they sit at one of the tables in the restaurant, buy a two-liter of Pepsi, and loiter for an hour, eating and talking. Shia gets a phone call from his mother, and he licks excess pizza sauce from his fingers while he talks to her. Across the table, Brendon texts back and forth, and Shia watches him with his elbows on the tabletop, saying, "Yeah, no, I'm staying with a friend. Brendon -- you remember him. Yeah, I'll be back in a few days."

After saying his goodbyes and ending the call, Shia knocks on the table and says, "My mom remembers you as the guy with the bracelets."

Brendon smirks, looking at the beaded bracelet Shia's mother had noticed before. She'd jokingly asked him if he needed help remember his own name, motioning to the small loop of letter blocks strung together on Brendon's wrist. Brendon tugs at it, and then holds up his cell to show Shia a message.

"Spencer and Haley are grilling tomorrow, if you want to go," he says.

"That sounds good," Shia says. "They're kind of late on the Fourth partying."

"We weren't at home, remember? He bought a grill. He's excited to use it."

"Ohh, okay."

"Mmmhm." Brendon closes up the pizza box and takes it to the trash. Shia closes what's left of their soda. They can probably stick it in the fridge. Brendon comes back to the table and stands in front of Shia. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah," Shia says, except he leans back in his seat, thinking about the effort needed to stand. Brendon holds a hand out to give Shia some leverage, and Shia takes it, leaving their hands connected when he rises, stumbling because Brendon clearly isn't expecting Shia to actually use all of his weight.

"Whoops, hold on," he says, giggling.

Shia raises his hand and waves to the guy and girl standing behind the counter, closing up for the evening. He says, "Thanks, guys," and waves as Brendon tugs him forward, out of the door. It's still uncomfortably warm, but Brendon's hand remains in Shia's until they have to split to get into the Brendon's car, and even once they're no longer touching, Shia turns over the image of their fingers clasped in his mind.

Back at the house, Shia takes off his pants and yawns, lying on the couch. Brendon messes around in the kitchen, putting up the soda and loading a few dishes into the dishwasher as he mutters about Shane leaving stuff in the sink, which is apparently a pet peeve of Brendon's. Shia notes it, kind of bemused, and lets his eyes slip shut, brought back to full attention when Brendon nudges him, a hand on his leg.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

Shia yawns again. "Sleeping, I thought."

A faint smile creeps across Brendon's mouth, and he shakes Shia's leg again, saying, "No, come on. Sleep in the bedroom, dude. The couch is great, but the bed is better."

"Really," Shia says, sitting up, and his stomach gets that feeling again, his head a little fizzy, though Shia takes Brendon's hand and tells himself he's just tired.

"I promise," Brendon says. Shia follows him into the bedroom, into bed, with his hand touching Brendon's side and their legs brushing under sheets.

;;

Spencer's party is like being dropped in cold water. That is, it's probably more like being dropped for the second time, because as strange as it had been to bring Brendon around his own friends again, mentally fixated on the way Brendon's hands had been in Shia's jeans not too long before they'd arrived and deliberately not talking about it, this is even stranger. Here, there are more things stacked in the pile of Things Unsaid. Brendon's band and Vegas friends, they're good people, but Shia isn't oblivious to the way he and Brendon have been acutely aware of each other's distance since they arrived.

Shia doesn't want to explain himself to them. He doesn't feel like he has to either, and yet he can't stop actively thinking about the way that he isn't. Earlier, Shia had woken up with his arm draped over Brendon's middle, breathing into his shoulder. He doesn't know if they're hiding that. It's not like it's something anyone has _asked_ about, but Shia laughs with Spencer, helps Haley set out more chips, soda, and beer for everyone, and then talks with Ryan about how, sure, yeah, he plays drums, and then Shia's also stubbornly thinking about the fact that that's a detail none of these people know. That it's something they might react to if they did.

Shane hadn't been at the house when Brendon and Shia woke, but he shows up to Spencer's. The last time they'd been around each other, Brendon had insisted he and Shane get to add to Shia's random collection of toilet seats, and Shane asks after the Dolphin cover they'd purchased from Target. Shia still has it, the title of that Miss Mofet CD, _An Island of Reality in an Ocean of Diarrhea_ , scribbled in a curve in Brendon's handwriting with both their names signed next to it.

"It's right there with the others. Ask Brendon," Shia says. "That colorful fucking seat."

"That's best collection of anything," Shane says, and Shia bows his head and holds up his beer bottle, appreciative.

"Good to see you again, man," says Shia. "Are you coming back to your place tonight? You need to pack up to head out with these guys at some point, too, huh?"

Shane says, "Not tonight, but you'll probably see me around there before the week's out."

"Cool. You have to be around for our horror movie marathon, at least. Good shit, I mean, not crappy gore remakes."

Shane laughs and says, "I forgot you're like the connoisseur of thrillers and stuff. So, Hitchcock's in there?"

"Always," Shia says.

What makes any tension Shia experiences more awkward is that fact that it is generally his own creation. Nobody else is thinking what he's thinking, he has to remind himself. Nobody except Brendon, maybe, who stops him for a second while they're in the kitchen, letting Ryan walk out ahead, and then asks, "Are you good? Is this cool?"

"Of course. Yeah, why wouldn't it be?" Shia asks, and Brendon shrugs.

"Just -- you know. I'm asking," he says. He nudges Shia's arm and trails him as they move back to the patio, where Spencer announces that there are burgers ready for anybody who wants one.

In Brendon's house that night, Shia touches his back, slipping his palm around to Brendon's side and feeling something like relief. He's confused by it. Brendon jumps, startled as Shia's finger grazes skin, pushing under the hem of Brendon's shirt, and Shia knows that there was a time -- not too long ago -- where this was unlike them. Unlike him.

Stretching his arm over his head, Brendon groans and says, "I've been sweating all day. How are you even this close to me?"

"Then take a shower," Shia says, which sounds like an excellent idea once he says it.

Brendon goes first while Shia channel surfs. Shia could probably use Shane's bathroom, but he's got issues with people getting into his own shit when he's not around, so he doesn't invade Shane's territory. He wanders into Brendon's bedroom to pull clean underwear out of his bag, hearing it when the shower shuts off. Brendon comes in holding his towel closed and singing "Sweet Dreams." He's constantly singing something, and Shia smiles at him, a gesture that's returned when Brendon sees him.

That's something else that shocks Shia: how much he likes looking at Brendon. He would never claim he hasn't ever looked at a guy. Shia has an aesthetic appreciation for people, like anyone, but he looks at Brendon and wants. It's the two working in tandem that unsettles him, knowing that he can have it.

When Shia finishes his own shower, he comes back into Brendon's bedroom to see Brendon playing an acoustic guitar. He isn't playing anything recognizable, and Shia puts on clean underwear and lies down on the bed behind Brendon, stretched out and listening. He stares at the ceiling as Brendon starts humming to what he plays, thinking about the difference between the party and now. He grazes his fingertips along Brendon's lower back, along the waist of his pajama bottoms, and Brendon turns his head.

"I have this riff stuck in my head," he says, strumming, but Shia tugs at the back of his clothes, and Brendon finally sets down his instrument. He swings around, lying out next to Shia. "What."

Brendon eyes him suspiciously, and Shia moves to kiss him, trying it. He likes kissing Brendon, closing his eyes and testing out the idea as if he expects to pull back and not want to do it again. This experience has Shia doing things he hasn't, doesn't know how to feel about exactly. He lets Brendon come to him, lips hovering near, and then Shia opens his mouth, and he likes it. He likes the kiss, the way Brendon's hand rests on his stomach, the way he eventually cards his fingers between fabric and skin, and gets bold, scooting down the mattress and using his mouth.

Shia exhales through his nose, lifting his hips, and Brendon squeezes his thigh as he sucks. After Shia comes, Brendon takes a moment to spit in the bathroom, and Shia waits to feel something other than satisfaction. He doesn't, not even when Brendon comes back and they fall asleep together, comfortable and quiet.

;;

So, of course, on Wednesday morning, Shia gets out of bed before Brendon and finds Shane in the kitchen. He wakes without moving at first, noting all the spaces where he and Brendon are touching and only gets up when his stomach growls. He thinks he'll cook eggs or something, preparing food for both of them, and then they'll figure out what to do with themselves for the day. He's scratching his hair as he putters out of the bedroom, and it must be the the grogginess that keeps him from hearing any telltale noises, but he doesn't register anyone else in the house until he walks in and sees Shane.

"Hey," Shane says, pulling a spoon out of his mouth. He looks surprised.

"What's up?" Shia stops at the mouth of the kitchen. "Did you just get here?"

"Like fifteen minutes ago," Shane says, glancing over the bar. "I thought you guys had already gone out or something -- did you just get up?"

Shia doesn't try to follow Shane's line of sight. He guesses Shane's probably looking at the couch. Shia's standing around in just his underwear, wishing he'd at least remembered to grab a shirt before he came to find something to eat. He hadn't expected Shane to be back early in the morning, although Shane probably hadn't expected to see Shia not sleeping on the pull-out.

There could be an explanation. Shia could say that he'd folded up the couch and had just gotten out of the shower. He could say that he went to dump his blankets on Brendon's head to get him to wake up. He could say a few different things, all with varying degrees of believability, and avoid the direction he can sense this exchange is moving toward.

Shia says, "Yeah, um. I didn't even hear you in here."

"Oh, that's," Shane says, stopping the microwave and pulling out a bowl. "That's good. Brendon hates when I accidentally wake him up before he wants to be."

Shia forces a small laugh, nothing too over-the-top, but it feels fake anyway. "But you didn't, so you're good."

"Is he still sleeping?"

"Yeah -- I mean, I think," Shia says, thinking _shit, stop talking_ , but it's not like it'll make a difference now. Shane's already wondering what he walked into, and his suspicions are probably right on the money, and Shia's wishing Brendon had woken up first. "I was gonna look for cereal or -- "

"Sure, go for it," Shane says, stepping back with his bowl in hand. "I settled for instant oatmeal, but whatever's in here, you're welcome to have."

"Thanks," Shia says, and Shane nods.

"I'm, uh. Help yourself. I'll be in my room, and then I'm taking the dog out."

"Alright."

Shia stands in the middle of the room for a whole minute after Shane leaves, debating whether or not he should stay and eat now that he's here or duck back into Brendon's room as quickly as possible. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He's not even hungry anymore.

He doesn't want to be around when Shane comes from his room again, so Shia dashes back to Brendon's room. Crawling back into bed, he wills himself to sleep again but can't shake the nerves in himself. He lies silent for another hour, and by the time Brendon stirs, Shia's wishing he could he kick his own ass, because obviously letting Shane come back out to living room to still find Shia nowhere around was the _smarter_ choice in the situation, right. He's screwing this up.

"Morning," Brendon mumbles, shifting restlessly as he comes to full consciousness.

Shia means to return the greeting, but instead he says, "I think your roommate knows I slept in here."

"Mm. Wait," Brendon says, blinking. "What?"

"He was in the kitchen when I went in there earlier, but we didn't," Shia says. He takes a breath. "I think he put two-and-two together pretty easily."

"Is he still here?" Brendon asks.

"I think so."

"Alright," Brendon says, knuckling his eyes with his fingers. He says, "Dammit," and climbs over Shia, opening his bedroom door and walking out without closing it back. Shia stays in the bed, lying there, exposed.

This is the kind of thing that's going to happen. Shia knows that. He likes Brendon, and that's something their friends will eventually see -- will find out about, and see them together. Catch them together? Fuck. Shia lies in bed and tells himself he expected this, but still doesn't know how it's supposed to make him react. He assumes Brendon's talking to Shane about their encounter in the kitchen. He wonders if Shane is asking Brendon if Shia's gay. He's not sure if that bothers him.

Brendon comes back into the bedroom and grabs a shirt off the floor. Shia hasn't moved much.

He asks, "Is he -- did you go talk to him?"

"Huh?" Brendon says, tugging the shirt down and around his torso. "It's fine. I told you, he's cool."

Shia can't believe it. He sits upright, watching Brendon go from getting on the shirt to wiggling into some jeans. He says, "He didn't say anything. What, all of his past roommates have eventually brought dudes home?"

"What? No," Brendon says. He fastens his jeans, bounces on the bed, kisses Shia and backs off. "He's just cool. Come to the store with me, man. We have no food. Did you eat earlier?"

"I didn't. Um. Okay, let me get dressed."

Shia doesn't understand, but he doesn't question it either. He throws on his clothes from the day before. Shane isn't in the living room when they leave the house, and Shia wonders if this outing is intentional. Maybe Brendon and Shane got into an argument and Brendon's giving him space. Maybe Shia should've said something to Shane this morning or come down when Brendon left bed to talk to him. Maybe he should find Shane and say something now. Maybe Shia should stop hunting for something wrong and not overanalyze going to the store for food. Not knowing how he should handle himself fucking sucks.

They buy a bunch of groceries, going down the aisles and grabbing more junk food than actual items they can cook. Brendon tells him that he doesn't want to purchase too much that might spoil while he and Shane are overseas, and Shia just tosses a box of Rice Krispies Treats in the cart. He keeps his mind off what they aren't talking about by being meticulous about which flavors of Gatorade to buy.

Brendon doesn't say anything else about it until they park outside of his house again, groceries in the back. He pulls the key out of the ignition and says, "It's not like you _are_ some dude I brought home."

That wasn't actually Shia's point. He says, "That's not what I meant. I just thought he'd say something."

If the scenario was reversed, Shia's pretty positive he'd have something to say. He'd have questions, at least. It would take him a minute to get used to the dude walking around in his house, wondering if him and his roommate were fucking in the next room. Wow, Shia really hopes Shane isn't wondering that about them.

Brendon says, opening his car door, "It's not his business, dude. He doesn't have to have anything to say."

"Still," Shia says, but he lets the conversation die. If Brendon's roommate is okay with everything -- with whatever this is that he needs to be okay with, then he's going to roll with this. Accept it.

The thing about it, though, is that while they're hanging out for the rest of the day, Shia feels the same way he did at Haley and Spencer's cookout. For the last few days, he's touched Brendon freely, the two of them connected at the hands, arms, mouths, legs, hips during various intervals while in this house. Shia's self-conscious as the three of them shuffle around inside, avoiding bumping into one another. Shane isn't weird about it. He doesn't even say anything, but Shia starts to think that maybe that's just another part of the issue, and each time he steps outside to smoke a cigarette in the blistering heat, it feels too much like reprieve.

He wants this to go away. He wants to touch Brendon. He wants, he wants, he wants. Nothing happens.

They have their horror and thriller marathon, going through five movies in one evening. Brendon starts dozing off halfway through _Straw Dogs_ , right in the middle of Shia and Shane's conversation about how Dustin Hoffman has always been the man and will never reach a point when he isn't fucking awesome. They call it a night when Brendon tips over lands sort of on Shia's shoulder but mostly with his head wedged between Shia's arm and the couch cushions. Shane laughs, and Shia nudges Brendon, who snuffles and doesn't move.

"Okay, maybe he's got the right idea," Shane says, looking back to the television. "Are you still watching this?"

"You can cut it off," Shia says.

Shane turns everything off and gets up to go to bed. He looks down at Brendon, then at Shia, and Shia thinks, okay, this is where he gets to have another awkward conversation, but Shane simply says, "Watch out, dude, he drools sometimes."

Shia chuckles, surprised, and says, "Thanks for the warning."

"I've been a victim before. I look out for other people," Shane says, yawning. "I'll see you guys in the morning."

"'Night, man," Shia says. Shane echoes the sentiment and disappears, and Shia's left to shake Brendon awake again to get into bed. They make it with minimal stumbling, and Brendon kicks out of his pants and dozes off before Shia even lies down.

;;

This could be easy. Shia could keep doing this thing, he and Brendon a constant experiment in trial and error, and maybe more people would react like Shane than not. It could be worth it. In the morning, Brendon wakes him up and they linger in bed to make out, Shia holding onto Brendon's hips and letting him roll against Shia's body slowly. Three weeks has already made them better than good at this part. Shia hasn't dated anyone long enough to perfect these kind of moments in over a year, not since breaking up with China, and now there's Brendon, and they could keep doing this, which is exactly why Shia stops for air.

"B," he mumbles, lifting his chin. "Brendon, I don't think -- "

"Hm?" He backs off, planting his arms on either side of Shia to watch him.

His mouth is ruddy and damp. Shia takes in the image and thinks, wow, he did that. He's been kissing this boy. This is them, together, and letting those thoughts settle has him blurt, "I can't be your boyfriend."

Brendon snorts, smiling crookedly. He says, "We're making out on my bed. It's not that serious."

Shia has to laugh at himself too, but he says, "Whatever. Fuck, you know what I'm saying. Are we dating?"

"I -- I'm supposed to know?" Brendon asks, and Shia rolls his eyes.

"Brendon," he says, and Brendon rolls off of him, sighing.

He rubs his hands over his face, and says, "I have no idea what we're doing. I'm not thinking that far." He props himself on his elbows to direct his attention at Shia again. "That's my honest answer."

"Do you want this to go that far?"

"Do you?" Brendon asks. "Is this because of Shane? He won't, like. I've got so much shit on him, first of all, but he doesn't care about this anyway."

It's not about Shane. Or, it's partially about Shane, in that Shane knowing makes this more real, Shia thinks. It's not like going out with a girl once or twice, having a good time, and then parting ways when you decide it's not going to work out without ever having to bring anyone else into it. This is a month of them colliding and dancing around each other, and then carelessly wrapping themselves in impulse, and Shia has _liked_ it. That's what it is.

"It's not him," Shia says.

"Did I do something?"

Shia sits up and says, "You don't have to sound like you're trying to convince me not to break up with you."

" _You_ sound like you're trying to let me down easy!" Brendon says. He sighs, frustrated. "What, like. Fuck, I don't know."

"Sorry," Shia says. He's totally killed the mood. Slaughtered it, buried it, and spit on its grave. He laughs again, sort of twisted and wry. "I sound like a douchebag, okay, but. It's freaking me out not knowing how far this is going and having someone know about it."

Brendon's expression is sincere in its confusion when he asks, "You've told me about chicks you date, dude. Casual and shit. Why does it matter if this is going anywhere?

Shia shrugs a lot, more than once, more than necessary. "Because I think I want it to, and that's not. What is that about? That's not casual."

"Maybe we could be."

"I don't think I'd want to be," Shia admits, which is the complete truth, and which is the most incriminating thing he's admitted to in a long time. "So..."

Brendon sits, silent. He taps his knuckles against his lips, both of them stewing in the moment, and then Brendon breathes in and tilts his head sideways. His voice is smaller, more cautious as he says, "What if you weren't the only one?"

Shia raises his eyebrows, considering. He says, "You know you're going on tour again in like three days, right?" It's Brendon's turn to shrug uselessly. "I can't start dating someone and then not see them for a month."

"Well," Brendon says, throwing his arm out, frustrated again. "What do you want me to do?"

" _I_ don't know."

"Fuck it, then." Brendon moves off the bed and leaves the room with that, pulling open the door do quick that it swoops around. The knob hits the wall, and Shia doesn't move.

 

**9**

One thing that Brendon hates -- one hundred percent can't fucking stand -- is when someone decides they have a problem with things no one else dislikes and makes it everybody else's job to figure out a solution. Ryan did that a lot when they first started recording together as a band, vetoing vocal slides in the studio or complaining that Brendon wasn't really _getting_ what he meant, but then he would never explain to Brendon exactly what it is was he did want instead. It drove Brendon crazy by the end, but they made it through that process, and then they'd actually learned to understand one another better. Struggling to figure out someone else's head is exhausting, though, and Brendon doesn't see himself wanting to do that voluntarily.

He doesn't think he's annoyed by Shia not wanting this, by him wanting something else. It's the indecision that bugs the shit out of him. It's that Shia doesn't have an alternative of his own but shot down Brendon's suggestions. It's that Brendon doesn't know what he wants from any of this either.

Vegas has decided that making everyone tolerate weather over a hundred degrees will continue to be its primary goal, but Brendon sits outside for a while anyway, wearing only his pajamas. He needs to clear his head. He wishes he'd brought one of his cigars out with him.

The heat gets the best of him, and he eventually goes back inside. He's greeted with the sight of Shane and Shia in the kitchen, standing over the stove, and talking about something of which Brendon only catches the tail.

"Mm -- Brendon," Shane says, calling to him. "Shia's making breakfast sandwiches. How many do you want?"

Regardless of how annoyed he may be, Brendon is hungry. He hasn't eaten yet. He asks, "What are you putting on them?"

Shia glances at the pan and the ingredients on the counter, gesturing expansively. "Whatever you want. We bought a lot yesterday."

"Eggs and cheese are fine."

"How many?"

"Two," Brendon says, and then, "I'm going to shower," exiting the room without further comment.

He runs sort of long, standing under the spray and wishing the tour would start already. Two more days. He's ready to get out of Las Vegas again.

Shia's waiting in the bedroom when Brendon steps out of the shower. He has his elbows on his knees, hands folded, and he's staring at his feet on the carpet until he hears Brendon moving.

"Hi, again," he says, lamely. "I brought your food in here. It might be getting cold now."

The plate's sitting on his dresser. Brendon goes to dig through his drawer for clean clothes, saying, "Thanks."

"Should I go home?" Shia asks. "If you're going to blow me off for the next two days -- "

"I didn't _start_ any of this," Brendon says, unsure if he means their conversation earlier or everything all the way back to June. Both are true.

Shia says, "I wasn't trying to piss you off. I was just telling you that I don't fucking know what I'm doing."

"Neither do I!" Brendon says, closing his eyes to calm himself. Honestly, in about two seconds, he's going shake the shit out of Shia, because if he doesn't have the answers, Brendon can't understand why he thinks Brendon would. "I'm definitely not the expert here. Your last relationship beats the length of mine like five times over. I'm winging it. I'm so -- this is so improvised."

"I've told you. I mean, you _know_. I've gone out with people in the last year, and you think it might be something, but then it isn't," Shia says, bracing his hands over his knees. He's hand keep fidgeting, like he wants to use them to speak and refrains. "I'm saying that I fa-- if there's really somebody I'm gonna fall for, I'm going down hard, and this doesn't feel small to me."

"Okay, I hear that," Brendon says. That part he understands. "What I don't get is the -- because I'd try, like. I'd rather try and go with it, than just... not."

"I don't want to do it wrong." Shia shakes his head, holding his hand up and saying, "It's like, I could say, okay, I'm doing this, and then you leave and it falls apart, because I don't _know_ what the hell I'm doing. This is my first time with -- I've never been with another guy. I don't know what's gonna be different, and we'll fuck it up, and then what? I mean, I like you being around."

"You're afraid of doing it wrong," Brendon repeats, trying to make sense of everything.

"Scared as fuck, B," Shia says. He looks serious. "You said it. The only real relationship I've had was three years, and that shit isn't easy to get over for me. If I'm gonna do it again, I gotta go big or just, I don't know, leave it."

"So," Brendon says, reaching behind himself to scratch his back, hands restless. "maybe we can."

"You're still going to Australia."

"That shouldn't --" Brendon sighs. "What about after?"

Shia seems to mull it over. He scratches his thigh and says, "I guess, uhm. After is after. Whatever happens then is a different story."

That answer is more open than the alternative. Brendon's not happy about it, necessarily, but it also doesn't seem to be up to him. He's still standing with his hand fisted at his side to keep his towel up, and he suddenly feels a little ridiculous with Shia staring at him.

"Okay," he says, giving up. Okay.

"Are you pissed?" Shia asks. Brendon half-laughs, not quite smiling.

"Not exactly," he says, because although he doesn't like it, he understands it. No one can really help shitty timing, but that doesn't stop it from sucking.

;;

The remaining couple days in Vegas aren't impossible, but they aren't the most fun Brendon's ever had. Shia sleeps on the pullout, and Brendon loses two hours of sleep eyeing his walls in the dark, wondering how that became something that feels like a loss. He sleeps in the next morning mostly to delay thinking about it more.

Packing for tour isn't a huge hassle. Brendon hasn't really bothered to unpack a lot of what he'd had in his bag from touring Europe. He washes everything, stuffing much of the clothing right back into the bag with the exception of a couple shirts and adding a jacket. As a personal reward, he finishes the playlist of movies Shia picked out, along with the others. They wrap the extravaganza with _Psycho_ , because Shia's a cliche sort of film buff, but Brendon's always liked that movie, so it's fine.

He walks his dog, cleans his room, does his dishes, and he doesn't kiss his friend sleeping on the couch, and by the time the afternoon that he and Shane are due to ditch town arrives, Brendon's already imagining himself in Japan. He's certainly ready to escape Vegas again for a while.

Shia tosses his own bag into his truck as Shane and Brendon prepare to head to the airport. Spencer calls to tell them he's going to meet them there. Ryan flew to New York a couple days before to see Keltie, and Jon's flight leaves an hour later. They're all set. Brendon shuts the trunk of his car and strolls over to where Shia stands after checking the lock on their front door.

"Good luck," Shia says, holding his hand up to his forehead to shade his eyes. "Have fun, kill it, and all that."

"It's me, so," Brendon says, popping his collar. "I'm a natural. You don't have to worry."

Shia laughs lightly. He steps forward and scoops Brendon into a hug. Brendon can't figure out where to put his hands for a second, then sucks it up and returns the same pressure Shia gives him. They're so fucked. They're so stupid, it's amazing, Brendon thinks, distracted by the press of lips Shia's smacks against the side of his head. It's over before Brendon can fully register what's happened, and he squints as Shia's pulls back and smiles at him, all lip, no teeth.

"Call me or whatever," he says. "I'll be around."

"Yeah, yeah," Brendon says, making his way back to his car.

"Later, Shane, man," Shia calls, raising a hand. Shane mimics him, and they get into the car and wait for Shia to pull out and away before moving.

They're ten minutes into their ride to the airport before Brendon clears his throat and says, "So, we don't to have to talk about it or anything. It's not a big deal."

"I didn't say anything," Shane says. "He can kinda cook. That was good breakfast the other day."

Brendon settles back in his seat and slips his Raybans on over his eyes. He cuts the volume on the stereo higher, saying, "There's nothing to talk about now, anyway."

;;

Singapore doesn't suck, but the flight there does. Brendon sits next to Ryan, orders a Sprite, and then some gin to put in it, but he doesn't drink as much as he wants. The problem with long flights is that they allow him too much time to live in his own head. Brendon plays eights games of tic-tac-toe with himself, reads an entire in-flight magazine, naps for half an hour, and then still has plenty of time to waste wondering where Shia is on the road, if he's made it home, and if he's played "What About Now" eighty times and has sung along the way he tries to convince Brendon he never does. Brendon increases the volume in his headphones and wishes he could overwhelm his own thoughts with the singing of other people.

He's relieved when they finally land and have a press appearance almost immediately. They're talking to an older guy first, who watches them closely whenever Brendon or one of the others speaks. Distraction is better than sitting idle, and the interview questions are more engaging than they been generally been getting lately.

One of the lighter questions is about vacation. The interviewer says he knows that they've been on tour a lot for the album, and he wants to know if they're at all tired.

"Well we just had a couple weeks off to sleep," Spencer says. "I had a barbecue."

"I wasn't there," Jon says.

"But he was invited," Brendon clarifies. "So it's his own fault for not coming. No, yeah, I don't know about these guys, but I'm already ready to do it some more. Plus, getting to come to places like this -- way better than home."

"We get to play festivals here and in Japan," Spencer says, taking over, and Brendon lets him. That question is really the only one Brendon contributes to a whole lot, occupying the rest of his time by watching the others, nodding in agreement, and privately debating how soon is too soon to make an extremely long-distance call. He debates with himself about whether he should call at all.

Other people getting to have the ball in their court makes everything harder.

Brendon makes up his mind that he is definitely, one-hundred-percent not going to be the one to attempt a connection first after Ryan asks about Shia.

"You and Shane made it out fine?" Ryan asks, adjusting his scarf. It's way too hot for a scarf, but Ryan insists on things other people wouldn't.

Brendon nods. "Yeah, we met with Spencer and everything. Smooth trip."

"Did Shia leave before or -- did you make him drive back himself?"

"He's a big boy. Takes care of himself; makes his own decisions," Brendon says, going for light-hearted teasing. He's not positive that that's how it might sound to objective ears. "He started back when we took off."

Ryan tugs at the fringe of his scarf, adjusting the way the loose threads lay, and says, "You guys are together a lot lately."

"I'm living the Hollywood life," Brendon says, nudging Ryan's arm. "There are less limos than you'd think."

"Kind of like the rock music life," Ryan says, and Brendon laughs. They joke halfheartedly about being in films versus touring, and in the back of Brendon's mind, he tries to add up the time he's spent with Shia recently.

He went to Washington, D.C., flew back to hang out in Los Angeles, and then brought Shia to Las Vegas. It didn't amount to that much time spent. Four weeks, maybe, but with gaps. They spoke on the phone a lot, but that doesn't necessarily mean that much. They were just friends keeping in touch -- nothing out of the ordinary. ( _Minus kissing him and sneaking fingers into one another's jeans and the heaviness of his cock on your tongue_ , Brendon's brain supplies, like rapid-fire images exploding behind his eyelids when he blinks.)

Brendon watches Ryan tip his head to the side a little as he laughs and wonders what it must look like from the outside.

;;

Keeping his mind off of the States gets easier as they tour. He throws up onstage at SINGfest, and that sucks, a mixture of the heat and the beer and his shitty luck, but Brendon simply wipes his mouth and moves on with the show. They're playing festivals in Korea and Japan too. Brendon buys himself some alcohol at Summerfest, personally defiant, and focuses his attention on watching other bands. Jon manages to score some decent pot in Tokyo, or really, one of techs gets some and shares the wealth with Jon. Brendon smokes only a minimal amount earlier in the day, and then indulges himself a lot more after the show. He hasn't been in a bad mood, but he feels even better once he's smoked, sipping his beer, because he's got dry mouth something fierce, coasting on a buzz.

"Hold on, I'll be back," Jon says, leaning over to speak closer to Brendon's ear while they're watching another set.

Brendon waves his hand, acknowledging that he's heard, and he does a double take a minute later, re-remembering that Jon's left when he steps sideways to dodge someone moving an amp, right into the space where Jon's body should be. Pot always fucks up his reflexes and slows down how fast he really comprehends.

It's nothing terrible, but it's the same kind of mental delay that has him participate in a conversation with a woman who stands next to him a minute later, and then belatedly realize that, oh, he's talking to someone again. Another moment or two goes by before he recognizes her as one of the people who was letting them know how the day was going to play out. She's one of the production assistants -- shorter than Brendon and efficient without sacrificing friendliness.

"I've seen these guys a few times," she's saying, and Brendon has to glance back at the stage.

He says, "It's my first time, but I think I like them."

"You guys did a really nice job up there, too." She smiles up at him, pleasant, and Brendon thanks her.

She's not too much older than him, he finds out, which is sort of impressive. He's young, and yet he's always kind of surprised when he meets other people who are his age and have accomplished big things in their field, in this business, and aren't at least a little self-important. Tracey -- his memory finally supplies. Tracey has curly hair and a disarming smile.

"Thank you," he says. "How's everything running? Smoothly?"

"As much as it ever can," she says. "But there are a few of us handling everything."

They're flirting. Half an hour of standing around backstage, talking and leaning toward one another, and Brendon knows this well enough to recognize something they can turn into an opportunity for both of them. Brendon's finished his beer, and his high has evened out so that his muscles tingle but he feels less disoriented.

He steps back and says goodnight to Tracey.

"You'll be in Osaka, right?" he asks. "I've gotta find my band before they head to the hotel without me."

"I'll probably see you again, sure," she says, still smiling. If she's thrown by Brendon's change of pace, she doesn't let it show.

"'Night," Brendon says and walks off.

He tosses his empty cup in the trash and pulls out his cellphone. He scrolls through the contacts, A to Z, and then goes back and presses send as if that isn't what he's had in mind all along. He gets Shia's voicemail.

"What's up? It's me -- um, Brendon," he says and scoffs at himself. "Okay, you probably knew that. Dude, I don't even know why I'm calling, since it's probably kind of early there. The time difference is crazy. If I were you I'd be sleeping in, man. So I'll, uh. Stick with that, I'll talk to you later."

He disconnects and wanders for a while, trying to decide whether or not he wants another drink. His phone rings while he's in a hallway, echoing and louder than usual. Brendon answers on the third ring because he has to fish it from his pocket again.

When he picks up, Shia says, "You're funny when you're tipsy."

"I'm not tipsy," Brendon protests. He's totally in control. He feels good.

"Okay." Shia doesn't sound convinced, but Brendon doesn't care. "I wasn't asleep; I was finishing a meeting with my agent."

"New projects?"

"Getting down the particulars, yeah," Shia says. "Where are you?"

"Tokyo."

"Tokyoooo," Shia says, and then, "I've actually never been."

"We're just playing a festival. We won't be here long."

They have to be in Osaka tomorrow, the tenth. It's been a week since they left for tour again, and Brendon hasn't talked to Shia in the same amount of time. He stops in the hallway, looking up at the ceiling while he converses, and he can't make up his mind about whether or not this might be kind of pathetic.

Shia can't stay on long, because he's got another scheduling meeting for more shooting on _Transformers_. They say goodbyes. Shia says he'll probably call in a couple days, and Brendon suspects the sudden lift he gets in his chest might be hope. Something really close to it, anyway. It pisses him off.

;;

In Osaka, they play another solid show, and after the set, Brendon flirts with Tracey some more. She's hot, and she keeps her chin raised like maybe she won't mind if he ducks near, so Brendon does. They kiss behind a stage until someone calls for her, Tracey pausing before she takes off to say, "Hey. Later?"

"Yeah, find me," Brendon says.

That night they fuck because she wants to, and because he's horny, and because he's apparently completely single. He goes to her room, because she's somehow lucky enough to be bunking down alone. He doesn't stick around for long afterward, since she gets right out of bed to take a shower after, and he hates sitting around in her bed, dumbfounded, out of place, and sticky.

Shia doesn't call again.

Brendon's not waiting.

;;

Everywhere they go is hot. The weather provides a welcome change from the last bout of touring they did in support of _Fever_. Brendon's content to wear his sunglasses, absorb the heat, and enjoy playing music for the month. Meanwhile, Spencer has been getting a kick out of reading Wikipedia entries aloud right before they touch down in new places. As they get into Australia, he's got his phone, reading, " _Brisbane is served by all five major television networks in Australia, which broadcasts from the summit of Mount Coot-tha. Early Brisbane people once called it One Tree Hill._ "

"Like the television show?" Jon asks. "That's kind of cool."

"Did you watch that?" Brendon asks.

Jon shakes his head. "The poor man's The OC."

"And yet that one's still on the air, I think," Spencer says.

"Ooohh," Brendon says. "Point to Chad Michael, uh, what's his last name? Chad Michael Murray."

"Wasn't Pete on the show?"

"All of those guys were."

"Ryan watched those episodes," Spencer says, and Jon and Brendon laugh. Ryan pulls his headphones off, and asks, "What? Why are you looking at me?"

Brendon stops thinking about Japan, and he stops thinking about LA. He has a good time with his friends. One offense he feels he needs to repeat more while in Australia and New Zealand is to smoke more pot. The first afternoon on the road, he starts talking to a newer guy on the crew, Ethan, because he's innately hilarious and keeps sharing his supply with Brendon. He says that he was actually born in Auckland, but his parents moved the family out to Florida when he was ten. He's still got family in New Zealand though, so being on the tour is kind of perfect for him.

"And you guys I know are all from Las Vegas, right?"

"Well, except Jon, but yeah," Brendon says.

Ethan's decent company. When he isn't around with the rest of his band or Zack, Brendon hangs out with Ethan, and they kick it in semi-hidden places. They roll joints together. Mostly, the friendly interaction helps Brendon stay preoccupied. He hasn't talked to Shia much recently, not counting an unspectacular text message conversation that included more of them updating each other on random parts of work. Brendon could try to tell himself that they've lost the touch. D.C. and Las Vegas and everything in between was an isolated period, but it isn't so much that Brendon doesn't have anything to say to Shia as it is he's exhausted by how much effort it takes to talk around things.

In Sydney, Jon asks, "What's up with you?"

"What do you mean?"

Brendon adjust his glasses. He's wearing his reading specs instead of the sunglasses for a change. Ryan handed another book to him in Hong Kong, and Brendon tries to read at least twenty pages a day.

Jon shrugs. He says, "You look all lost in thought. You were staring at the wall."

"I was... thinking," Brendon says, and Jon chuckles.

"Yeah, I got that part."

Brendon closes his book. He hasn't really been reading for the last few minutes anyway. "No, my mom called and was telling me about this, um. My brother and his wife aren't getting along or something, and I was just thinking -- couples. It's tough."

"But not all bad," Jon says, and Brendon scratches at his palm.

"Well that's not what I said," he says. He gives up, because he doesn't really know what he _is_ saying. He looks at his phone, and all it has for him is the time.

Ethan sits through it when Brendon tries to hash out what he started to talk about with Jon. He tries to explain how difficult it is, reading other people. He hasn't had what _he'd_ count as any particularly serious relationships since Audrey, and they weren't together for very long. From what he _does_ know and from what he's gleaned from watching -- compromise and dealing with each other's issues and waiting for someone to call. It's hard. It's also draining.

He says, "I've just been thinking. I mean, because I'm not attached at all right now, but I see other people."

"Right," Ethan says, and he puts his hand on Brendon's shoulder when he hands over the joint.

He leaves it there while Brendon pulls, doing what Brendon thinks of as the sympathy inhale, even though there's nothing sympathetic about it. Ethan breathes in when Brendon does and then exhales too. It makes Brendon laugh as he releases the smoke, choking.

"You okay?" Ethan pats Brendon's back, letting his hand slide down and rest comfortable over his spine as Brendon catches his breath. "Poor amateur."

"Not even close," Brendon says. He turns to pass the pot back, angling inward, and it's as Ethan pinches the joint to take another puff that Brendon acknowledges how close they are. They're almost huddled in together, Ethan's arm around him, and Brendon glances at Ethan's hair and down to his jaw. He looks at Ethan's mouth while he smokes, exhaling through his nose, and Brendon recognizes the dull heat that begins to pool in his gut.

Maybe, he thinks. He hasn't really taken time to try to gauge his own attraction to other guys, let alone their interest in him. Ethan's slim and slightly taller than Brendon, and as Brendon tries to read the past few days in his mind retrospectively, he wonders if he could be on to something. He thinks he wants to be.

Ethan lowers the joint and lets his hand drag down a fraction more. He catches Brendon's eyes, asking, "What?"

"Nothing," Brendon says. "I want to see how a _pro_ does it."

"Okay, then," Ethan says, mock smug. He smiles. "Watch me show you how."

;;

They get a day off, and since everyone else takes years to get ready in the morning, Brendon ends up getting to walk around with a few of the roadies. Ethan comes along, and they invest themselves in aimlessness, bullshitting about nothing. Brendon buys new sunglasses and a couple t-shirts in bright colors. They smoke behind a shop and then walk it off as they head back towards the hotel where everyone's debating about whether or not they should go swimming in the hotel's pool for guests, and it's sometime after that but before the actual swimming that Brendon gets a sudden burst of reckless courage, and.

Brendon surprises himself by kissing Ethan while they're both stone cold sober. Ethan surprises Brendon by not rejecting him. Their plan was to just strip off at the pool and swim in their underwear, but Brendon gets sidetracked by a story Ethan tries to tell him on the way downstairs. While they're in the elevator together, it just seems like a better and better idea to chance his luck sooner rather than later.

The verdict: Brendon's pretty fucking lucky.

He pulls away before they get to the lobby, Ethan standing with his eyes closed. Brendon grins at him and says, "I don't usually -- this isn't," gesturing inconclusively.

"Oh. _Oh_ ," Ethan says as he gets Brendon's non-speech. "Wait -- uh -- "

"Do you just want to come back to my room?" Brendon spits out. He doesn't fully get how much he wants Ethan to say yes until the offer has been voiced.

"Okay," Ethan says, which is exactly what Brendon had hoped to hear.

Going back is simply the press of a button. Once the elevator doors are shut, Brendon steps into Ethan's space again, pushing him into the wall and kissing him with more intent. Brendon intends to get inside Ethan's pants, and Ethan pants a little against his mouth. It's a sweet sound.

They cool it in the hallway, Brendon tugging on the front of Ethan's shirt and practically sprinting down to his door. Brendon's rooming with Jon again, who has already gone down to chill with everyone else. As Brendon gets them into the room, he spares a moment to wonder if he should've given an excuse for why he wasn't coming to swim after all, but then Ethan's in his bedroom, hands on Brendon's side, turning him around, and Brendon could care less.

Kissing Ethan is different from kissing Tracey. He has to tilt his mouth up into it instead of craning down. To let Ethan remove his shirt, he raises his arms above his head, and then returns the favor. They fall onto the bed, Brendon scooting up to the pillows as Ethan crawls over him, and a tingling runs down Brendon's spine, tiny sparks of panic at the weight of another person over him, another guy. Ethan hitches Brendon's leg up, palm covering his thigh from hip to knee and back, and Brendon thinks, fuck, he hasn't been in this position in --

"Hey," Brendon says, lifting his hips. Ethan's already hard, and Brendon wonders how tough it would be to just say the word. Just satisfy his curiosity. Ethan moans against his mouth, Brendon trying to create more friction, and he says, "Hey," again, pushing at Ethan's shoulder.

"Huh?" Ethan asks, hair falling in his eyes.

Brendon's hot, excited and reckless. He says, "We have time. We can fuck."

"We can -- yeah?" Ethan says, a crooked smile slipping onto his face.

Brendon nods and pulls him down, kissing him. He's never done this, but he wants to try it now. He decides that he wants to know, reaching between their bodies and rubbing Ethan's cock through his pants.

He has condoms, and Brendon knows Jon has lube. He has to break away from Ethan and slide away to dig through the pockets of Jon's bag. Once he's got it in hand, assuming his place under Ethan again, Brendon thinks, holy shit, he's going to let this guy fuck him. Ethan strokes his sides, eventually sliding down to pull Brendon's pants off, paying some attention to his cock while he's down there, and Brendon lets himself fist a hand in Ethan's hair while he blows Brendon.

It's good, really good, and it only gets more intense when Ethan slides a slick finger into Brendon. Being stretched hurts, but the mouth on his cock is a convenient counterpoint to the discomfort. There's something about just having the finger inside him, Ethan adding another as Brendon gets used to one, that turns him on more. Finger-fucking. He's letting someone finger-fuck him in the middle of the day in Australia. They're taking their time but not moving too slow either. Brendon's locked the top lock on the door, but he still doesn't want to risk anyone walking in on this.

"Come on," he says, panting. "Come on, I want you to, uh. You should fuck me."

The words are horrifying and yet exactly what he means. The buzzing in him -- the sudden need to breathe in deep and just hold on also feels akin to excitement. Ethan pushes into him slow, muttering that, "You're tight, man, wow," and Brendon grits his teeth through the dull, hot pain. It's more intense than just getting used to the fingers. He's not sure if it feels like something likes, but he doesn't hate it either. Ethan starts to move, and Brendon gasps, scrabbling for purchase on the bedsheets, the headboard, anything.

Above him, Ethan keeps his jaw tight, and Brendon reaches to let his knuckles bump against his chin, airy, half-hysterical bursts of laughter spilling out of him. He's not trying to be mean, it doesn't feel mean. He's just -- fuck. There' s a cock in his _ass_ , and Ethan smiles, but drives into him with a little more force on the next stroke, and Brendon's eyes roll back. What the fuck. What the _fuck_?

"You like that?" Ethan asks, and Brendon wants him to shut the hell up, wants him to keep doing whatever it is that makes Brendon's stomach drop like a rock.

He reaches down to get a hand around his cock, and it's easier like that. He closes his eyes and basks in the sensation, the awkward twist of pain and muted pleasure. When he finally comes, it gets all over Brendon's fingers and his own stomach. Ethan leans down to kiss him but lands somewhere on Brendon's jaw as Brendon tilts his head back. He slides out of Brendon before he comes, taking off the condom and letting himself splash on Brendon's thigh.

"Dude," Brendon says, bouncing his leg on the bed. Ethan giggles, and Brendon thinks about pushing him off the bed. He doesn't.

"You're really hot," Ethan says, bending down to kiss Brendon's hip.

Brendon looks down at him, exhaling as Ethan's hair grazes his stomach. He says, "We shouldn't lay here."

He defies his own warning for a moment, staring at the ceiling and trying to get used to way he feels, open and something -- something else he can't name. He finally sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, and heads for the bathroom first.

Truth be told, Brendon can't stop focusing on the fact that his ass feels so strange. He turns on the shower, and then leans against the sink, sucking in a breath and staring at himself. A sort of dull throb still lingers, and Brendon wonders if he's going to be sore later. There's a possibility he's going to be sore when they perform tomorrow, because he let one of their crew members fuck him. One of the guys who works for them -- one of the _guys_ \-- held Brendon steady and pushed in slow, and Brendon smirks at himself in the mirror, marveling, even as another part of him wants to open the door and tell Ethan to get out.

He's... letting it process. He gets in the shower.

Ethan takes his turn once Brendon finishes. He brushes his hand over Brendon's hip as he passes, and Brendon veers to the side. His skin isn't sensitive and buzzing anymore, but the whole scene is overwhelming.

He unhooks the top lock on the front door, and then plops down on to the bed once he hears the shower start. Brendon picks out fresh clothes, stuffing the ones he had when they entered the room into his bag in a ball of fabric. He's slipping on his socks when he hears someone fiddling with the key to the room. Brendon watches the handle of the door depress. It feels like it's happening in half-time, Brendon getting his fingers tangled in laces, and then Jon walks in, shouting out to someone in the hall.

He's saying, "No, screw that! For dinner. Bring it later, then," and Brendon knows his eyes must be kind of huge when Jon looks into the room and sees him.

"Hey, what's up?" he asks. Brendon can see everything dawn on Jon in a quick series of realizations during the next few moments: the sound of the shower, the look on Brendon's face, the state of Brendon's bed. The room might smell, too, but Brendon can't quite tell after being inside the whole time. "Um."

Brendon's fingers are paused mid-task. He's got his shoelaces in a jumbled mess, and whatever Jon might be suspecting, Brendon bets it's a total shock to him when the water shuts off and it's Ethan that emerges from the bathroom.

"Yo," Ethan says, "do you think we could still go downstairs to catch them while they're still in -- oh."

The scene itself doesn't necessarily have to be telling, but Brendon guesses his failure to offer up some kind of explanation doesn't deter whatever Jon could be thinking. _Yes, you walked in on something_ , Brendon thinks. _Yes, it's what you're probably thinking_.

Jon blinks.

Brendon thinks, _Say something_.

Jon closes the door behind himself, stepping over to his bed. He doesn't say what Brendon knows he probably wants to. He doesn't say what _Brendon_ wants. Instead Jon lifts his suitcase, dropping on his bed to open it up and dig through his clothes.

He says, "Carden, Spencer, me, and Siska, we're, uh. If you guys are hungry, you can -- "

He shakes his head a little, like he's glossing over something. Brendon mentally curses over and over. He hasn't ground his teeth since he was a kid, but he's sort of feeling the urge now. He ties his shoe and stands. Ethan must have brought his underwear into the bathroom with him or something, Brendon's not sure, but he can't figure out if it's better or worse that he's standing around in is boxers.

"I'm gonna, uh," Ethan says, and then tugs his shirt over his head.

"Everybody's finished downstairs?" Brendon asks.

Jon says, "No. Like, Ryan's still down there, but some of us are hungry, so. And if you are -- hungry -- too, then...."

Ethan's wandered back into the bathroom to put on his pants and fuck around in the mirror. Brendon can see him in his periphery, but he keeps his eyes trained on Jon. When he steps back into the bedroom, Ethan doesn't touch Brendon, but he hovers near, stuffing his feet into his shoes. The words are looming in the air, thick and foreboding. He can sense them, chanting _sayitsayitsayit_ in his mind, but Jon keeps going through his bag, only looking up once or twice to regard Brendon awkwardly, and it annoys the hell out of Brendon.

Fuck this. Fuck all of it. He knocks the back of his hand against Ethan's arm, tugging on his elbow briefly, and says, "No, we're good right now. We're -- "

He doesn't finish the statement, waving his hand, dismissive, and Ethan shuffles along behind Brendon as he heads for the door. He's still wiggling his foot into a shoe when they get out of the room, heading down the hall and around the corner to the stairwell. Brendon slows once they're in there, letting the door shut.

"Good thing he didn't come back too much earlier," Ethan says, joking, and Brendon tries to smile.

He starts down the stairs, saying, "Yeah, right?" and feeling relief more deeply than he really wants.

;;

The sun has started setting by the time Brendon gets back to the hotel. He parts ways with Ethan, heading back to his room, on edge and frustrated. It's sort of ironic, maybe, that he gets laid and it only stresses him out. He hopes no one is in his room -- that Jon's still out eating or something, but before he can get that far, he finds Spencer in the hallway.

If the double take Spencer does once he notices Brendon doesn't warn him, then way Spencer warily asks, "Hey. Um, what's up? Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere in particular," Brendon says. It's not his obligation to make this easy.

Spencer faces him, leaning into the wall. "We thought you were coming to the pool earlier. And then you could've come eat with us."

"I was busy," Brendon says, the same annoyance he felt at Jon building in him again.

Jon appears then, walking out of Spencer's room. He says, "Alright, dude, I'm ready to -- oh, Brendon, you're back."

"Yeah, just got here." Brendon shoves his hands in his pockets.

Jon says, "What happened to, um. Where's Ethan?"

Brendon takes a breath and exhales roughly, trying not to squint as he bears both of their cautious gazes. He says, "I don't know. I'm not dating the guy -- but," raising his voice then as Jon opens his mouth again, and Brendon doesn't know if the boldness that fires up in him comes from, "Yes, I did fuck him earlier, if you're wondering."

"What, Brendon, I wasn't going to ask," Jon says, and Spencer's eyebrows lift, visibly startled.

He asks, "But Jon was right?"

Brendon rolls his eyes. "Oh, no, don't ask, Jon, but please feel free to talk about me to everyone else."

"Dude, it's Spencer," Jon says, "Plus, who even knew that was something you did now?"

"Who knew it was your business?"

"I walked in on it! You could have warned a guy," Jon says.

Brendon snorts. He says, "You act like I had my dick in his ass when you showed up," and turns to Spencer. "I didn't, by the way. I don't know if he told you that."

"Uh, we didn't go into it," Spencer says, clearly confused.

Jon steps closer to Brendon. "Man, what are you pissed about?"

Brendon doesn't _know_. It's everything -- standing in this hallway when he wants to lie down, having this conversation. The fact that they have to _have_ this conversation. Everything's stupid. Brendon's still frustrated and wound tight. He says, "I don't care. I'm over it," and ends the exchange prematurely. He doesn't want to deal with it. He doesn't even think it has to _be_ a big deal. Whatever, he got laid. It happens. Brendon's accidentally walked in on things before, and all he did after was move the hell on. No harm, no foul.

It doesn't go away. Brendon goes to bed early and wakes up to tension. It also doesn't help that Ryan knows, too, which Brendon expected. He's not really surprised, but Ryan has an opinion about everything in the world, and Brendon doesn't feel like pretending he cares about what that is this time.

"You got into it with Jon yesterday?" Ryan asks, peeling an orange.

"No," Brendon says.

"Hm." Ryan rips off pieces of of the peel and flings them into the trashcan a few feet away. They're supposed to be getting ready for soundcheck soon. "He said you did."

"It's not a big thing. Don't worry about it," Brendon says.

Ryan has useless fingernails. He jabs at the orange peel in places with his thumb, only managing to flick off one tiny section at a time. Brendon holds out his hand, and Ryan passes it over without protest.

While Brendon's stripping the fruit, Ryan looks at him and says, "Jon didn't make it a thing. We just -- you, like. He wants you to be careful. _We_ want that."

Brendon smirks at the orange, digging his nails under the tough peel. He says, "Be careful? Be careful of what? I had sex. Whoopdee-fucking-do."

"Brendon," Ryan says.

"And, like, screw that, I'm going to fuck whoever I want," Brendon says.

Ryan sighs. "That's not what I meant. Don't be a brat."

"Here, whatever," Brendon says, handing Ryan's orange back to him and wiping his fingers on his pants. "Take your fruit."

Everything's stupid. Everybody sucks. Brendon feels kind of shitty. He walks off alone. He doesn't want to be around Jon or Spencer, because he's not interested in picking up where Ryan left off. Ethan's busy setting up rigging. Brendon hasn't been avoiding him, really, but it's true, they aren't dating. They hooked up; it was decent, but that's kind of it. Hanging around him would probably make things with the band more tense anyway, so Brendon wanders, and he ends up in the heights of the arena, lounging with his foot draped over the top of another chair. While he's there, he receives a message from Shia. Shia, who it seems like he hasn't heard from in forever, at least longer than the few days it's been. _Whats up_ , is all it reads.

 _the sky_ , Brendon responds.

_good to know it's still where it should be_

_haha, yep_ , Brendon starts, and then adds, _sorry, man, i'm not having one of my best days_

Shia doesn't get back to him for a few minutes. When he does, he asks Brendon what's wrong. Brendon tries to explain it, talking in circles. His band is kind of weird right now. _people get into arguments sometimes_ , Brendon writes. It's just one of those periods. He considers telling Shia what happened, the whole story, but then thinks better of it. They talk that way for a while, and in the end, Brendon types, _stuff just keeps not turning out how I think I want_. He's ready for another change of scene.

 _sorry_ , Shia texts.

Brendon isn't sure it makes him feel any better.

;;

Brendon lets things stew for another day, and then it's Shane who finally says, "So..."

"Dude, not you too," Brendon says. "You can't even say you had no clue."

"Chill." Shane sits down next to him, pushing Brendon's feet off the couch. He's been sitting in the lounge trying to read again, and in the last forty minutes, Brendon's discovered that he pretty much hates this book. Shane says, "It's been like two days. You're still hostile."

"It's justified," Brendon says. " _If_ I was upset, which I'm not. Or, it depends on whether we're about to have a 'serious talk.'"

"This is about how I tried to make a sandwich earlier with all of you in the front, and it was awkward as shit."

Brendon laughs. "This is hardly the tensest it's been."

"That's why it's weird, dude, for real," Shane says.

"I'm past it."

"You're kind of not." Shane pats his knee, an unaware sort of fidgetiness. "It's not like anybody was trying to make you mad."

"I'm not," Brendon says. He was, sure. He was a little upset, but now he's more tired than anything. They have two more dates, and then he can go home. They have some appearances back in the states, but it won't be more day-in, day-out touring for a while.

Shane asks, "You sure?"

"Yeah," Brendon says. It's at least mostly true.

That's really what prompts him to say something to Jon later. The four of them haven't been ignoring one another, but the interaction hasn't been at one-hundred percent either. It's just that no one's been actively interested in what Brendon does with his dick before now, and that's kind of strange as hell. It takes some time to deal with that. With everything.

Jon says something to him about a riff he did during their last set, complimenting him on it, and Brendon thanks him. He then says, "By the way, hey. Sorry about being a douche, you know?"

"Yeah, that's kind of going around," Jon says. "I think I caught some of it, too. My mistake."

"No biggie."

Jon shifts his weight back and forth, like he's waffling on something. He eventually says, "It's just new. I guess."

"Yeah," Brendon says.

He waits for it. They stand there, and Brendon wonders whether Jon's just going to ask the question this time, or if Brendon will have to offer an answer randomly. Jon sticks a hand in his pocket and scratches his stomach through his shirt with the other. He says, "So, I don't know, is it. _Is_ this a regular thing? Or."

"No, it is new," Brendon says. He doesn't really talk about the dirty details. He doesn't want to hash out the extent of his brand new gayness or anything, because generally, he still -- "I don't know. I mean, I've tried, like -- _obviously_ , but. I don't know."

"Alright," Jon says, like that answer's fair. Brendon supposes it might be. It's sufficient anyway. It's the truth.

He runs a hand through his hair and says, "Anyway. Tell me more about my awesome guitar skills."

"Hell, yeah, dude," Jon says, laughing. "Like a shred master out there."

"I know, I know," Brendon says, nodding. He pets Jon's arm, feigning modesty. "I do what I can."

The resolution fails to be perfect, but that's fine. Things are okay enough that the last date on the tour is genuinely fun and not a nice experience despite extenuating circumstances. Before everyone heads back to the States, calling a wrap on the month, Brendon and Ethan exchange numbers. They might work together again in the future or they might not, Brendon's never really sure how people decide to stay on or come back. Ethan lives in Florida. There's a good chance they may also never cross paths again, which Brendon half thinks he should be more sentimental about, but oh well. They don't make any promises to one another.

In the airport, Jon says, "You're going to rack up serious flyer miles coming back and forth." He winks to let Brendon know it's a joke.

"He's from Miami," Brendon says, itching to change the subject already. "And, no, I won't."

"Ohh, cold." Jon slips his backpack onto his shoulders as they get ready to board. "No one to get hung up on, huh?"

Brendon laughs derisively. He says, "Some day my prince will come," rolling his eyes. "Let's get out of here."

 

**10**

Shia's been trying this thing -- this NicStick thing. He's tired of getting arrested for smoking in his neighborhood, so Teresa has suggested he try this tube that he rolls on in short stripes. It's supposed to release nicotine right into his bloodstream. He's not sure it really works. He loves his agent, and he appreciates her every day, but it honestly just feels like he's rubbing lip balm on his wrist a few times a day.

He also suspects that a large part of it is that he simply enjoys the act of smoking. Inhaling, holding the cigarette between his lips, and then letting the smoke out smoothly. It's relaxing. Shia's been on the stick for a week, and he no longer feels relaxed. He's goddamn irritable, really, although his spectacular timing might have something to do with it as well. He's landed himself right back into _Bobby_ -syndrome, filming one intense movie and starting up press for another. _Eagle Eye_ 's release is exciting, but it's difficult to continue doing stuff for Michael and have to show up at a press junket shell-shocked, running lines from the day before in his head.

He's taking ten or so while they set up the next shot, jonesing for a cigarette, and as he's digging in his pocket to find his stupid nicotine stick, his phone buzzes.

"Tell me something good," Shia says into the receiver.

Brendon says, "I saved a hundred dollars by switching my car insurance?"

Shia smiles. This is probably the first stress-free thing that's happened all day. "B."

"You're busy filming, right?"

"Yeah, why, what's happening?" Shia asks, giving up on finding the crappy nicotine lip balm or whatever. He's half a step away from just asking someone to get a PA to buy him something to smoke.

Brendon says, "Nothing. I wanted to call to ask if you're still filming around LA."

"You know it."

"We're playing Kimmel."

"Tonight?" Shia asks.

"No, no, at the end of the week," Brendon says, and Shia senses it coming even before Brendon says, "We're in New York right now, but I was just saying I'll be back in your area, kind of. So if you wanted to come by or something. Hang with us."

Shia bites his knuckle, trying to figure out how to maneuver his schedule, but says, "I don't know if I can. Promo and shooting are tying me up." His schedule is rarely clear for very long these days. "I _want_ to come."

"Well, we'll see what happens," Brendon says, and Shia agrees to call him again as soon as he can.

Shia still needs a goddamn cigarette, but he shakes his hand out. He hasn't talked to Brendon much lately. They've exchanged texts a few times, and Shia called once or twice while Brendon had been overseas, but there's something discouraging about always being the one to initiate. He knows it was a good idea, taking a step back. He needed that, a moment to regain some perspective, even if it mostly meant Shia thought about Brendon every time he even passed someplace they've spent time. And, really, they wasted the majority of their time in Shia's house, so he's been thinking about Brendon at least seventy-five percent of the last month. Not that he's getting ready to share that with anyone.

One of the PAs locates him and says, "Hey, Shia, rolling in five."

"Thanks," he says. "Oh, wait, wait, you don't have a cigarette, do you?"

;;

He doesn't second guess whether or not he should show up to Jimmy Kimmel's studio until he's combing his hair. He's not a guest or anything, and everyone who sees him will ask what the hell he's doing there. Shia's going to see a band. He's friends with those guys. He even recites it to himself like he's eight again, making faces at himself in the bathroom mirror while his parents are at work.

"I'm just here to watch the band," he says to his reflection. He doesn't particularly buy it.

Once upon a time, it would have taken some real effort to get into Kimmel randomly. It's a trip. Shia's not even thinking about when he was a kid. A few years ago, Teresa might have had to make a call or he'd have needed to talk about _Holes_ for twenty minutes until someone remembered who he was, but, man, he knows Jimmy. They aren't friends, exactly. Shia's never had the opportunity to shoot the shit with the guy or anything. He's apparently done something right in the last two years though, because he arrives, and Shia doesn't even have to call Brendon to let him know that he's around before someone lets Shia into the rear entrance.

"My man, my man," one of the security guys say, holding out his hand to give Shia a low five. Shia's forgotten his name, but they talked about baseball the last time he was on the show. "How you been?"

"Good, man," Shia says. "Passing through."

"You're not on tonight?"

"Nah, my friend's band is playing tonight. Where's Jimmy? I want to yell at him."

The guard points Shia in the right direction. He says hi to Jimmy, because he can't not. Kimmel always gives Shia a good laugh. He's surprised to see Shia's face, as expected, and he asks after _Transformers_ and how Shia's holding up, how his parents are doing. The movie's great. Press is good. His parents are still hippie weirdos, but he's pretty fond of them. Shia's exhausted but happy. He can't complain.

"And you're just in the neighborhood?" Jimmy asks. "I'm not saying I don't like seeing your face."

Laughing, Shia says, "I'm looking for the band, actually. I have an evening, and my friends are in town."

"Oh, yeah, they're probably in the green room then."

"Sweet," Shia says.

Jimmy walks him over to the sitting room, chatting about nothing in particular. It's always projects, man. Acquaintances in Hollywood ask about the same kind of stuff interviewers want to know most of the time, which Shia always finds kind of amusing. He likes Jimmy though, he does.

Shia can hear Brendon and the others before he sees them. They get to the end of the hall, and Shia says hello to the security guy there as he heads inside. It's as he's exchanging pleasantries, asking, "What's up, dude? How it's going?" that Brendon looks around from the screens showing the stage, lounging on the couches. He grins at Shia from across the room, and it has to be almost reflex by now, how quickly Shia mimics him.

"Heyyy," Ryan says, holding up his arms. Spencer and Jon are chuckling over something, muttering to each other. They wave at Shia when they see him, and Brendon meets him halfway, immediately throwing his arms around Shia to say hello.

"I was wondering if you got lost," he says brightly. He gives real hugs all the time, squeezing, and Shia can't believe it's been four fucking weeks.

He says, "In my own city? Come on, I'm not that sad."

"You never know until it happens," Brendon says, stepping back.

"Ryan's gotten lost in his hometown a few times," Jon says, holding a hand high to get their attention.

Ryan doesn't appreciate Jon volunteering information about his failures, saying, "It was nighttime. I'd just moved into the community."

"Because Ryan lives in a gated community. At twenty-one," Jon says. Ryan raises his hands and shrugs, mouthing, 'it's true, that's me.' Despite Jon's attempt at humor, he isn't all that ashamed.

"So, Brendon said you're off today?" Spencer asks, raising his voice over the chatter. There are a few people other than them, but Shia doesn't really bother scoping out who else is around. He doesn't see any of their girlfriends, and Shia hasn't met too many of the people that might hang around them. Shane isn't even present, but Shia takes a moment to give Eric five.

Shia says, "I'm actually cheating right now. I have a wicked fucking early call tomorrow, and I promised my mom I'd come by tonight. I'm sneaking this in real quick."

"Are you bailing halfway?" Brendon asks.

"No, no, I just mean I can't hang around long after." Shia nudges Brendon's elbow, nonchalant and incriminating all at once. He feels obvious, because his fingers keep tingling, and Brendon keeps smiling, and Shia keeps letting himself return the sentiment. Of course he's going to stay to watch.

The show goes off like it always does. Jimmy has a rhythm Shia appreciates, and Panic play a couple times throughout the hour. In between numbers, they come back to the green room, Spencer calling it, "holding. Like we're waiting for more interrogation." Brendon launches into an impression of old gangster movies, talking about how he doesn't know anything, copper, see? Shia laughs.

He isn't kidding about being pressed for time. When Panic come backstage again after performing for the close of the episode, Shia's trying not to look at his watch too much, the minutes ticking by and counting against him. His mother doesn't like waiting around for people too long, because she's always complained that it's like being tied up. She can't do anything until whomever shows and that business gets handled, and what if she wants to go out somewhere after? They're holding her hostage. Shia knows his mom's probably not going anywhere, because she'll start explaining what it means to have principles and striving to foster spontaneity instead of hindering it. She always does.

He grabs hold of Brendon as soon as he gets a chance. He says, "It sucks that I have to go, man. It's like I've been here five minutes."

"Is it that time already?" Brendon asks, wiping his hand across his forehead. They played two songs. He isn't even sweating, and Shia figures it's a habitual move. "Alright, hey, I'll head out with you."

The weird thing about studios is that there are always more people than Shia can account for at once. Everybody in the hallway can't possibly be working, and, okay, he has to include himself among the group of hangers-on tonight, but even allowing each person appearing on the show a guest, there are way too many people around.

He slows before they reach the exit, turning to hug Brendon again. Shia pats him on the back. This is fine. The people milling about randomly don't matter. He says, "It's cool that you're back again. I know you weren't feeling so hot last week."

"Yeah, it's okay. We patched it up," Brendon says, releasing Shia. "Speaking of, we have most of September off."

"Really," Shia says, pressing his lips together and considering. "I'll have to keep that in mind. Are you gonna be around? In California, I mean."

"I can be," Brendon says. "Free month, man. I can be wherever I want."

"Good to know."

They're spectacularly bad at this part, no matter how many times they do it. Goodbyes and see-you-laters. It takes Shia backing up as they speak in order for him to finally get anywhere. Brendon waves, and he says he'll bother Shia tomorrow or something. He repeats that he's got all the time in the world for a while. He sounds exceptionally pleased, his smile all teeth. Shia likes the thought of Brendon being around, having _time_ , and so ten minutes later, Shia has no clue why it's taken him even that long to ring Brendon's cell.

"Long time, no talk," Brendon says, mocking.

He rolls up his windows and turns on the A/C so that he can hear better, saying, "I'm the biggest douchebag. I should give up the ghost and take a class on social cues."

"They probably have plenty out here." Brendon's smiling. Shia can hear it through the phone again.

Shia says, "I wouldn't be shocked. But, okay, check this out: I know you just got back, so you'd probably rather get reacquainted with your crashpad first, but if you wanted to stick around for a while, I've got a two-bedroom. You may or may not know."

"Yes," Brendon says, right away.

"Really? B, I have to say, I'm kind of busy with Transformers and then promo for Eagle, because that's at the end of the month," Shia explains, tapping his steering wheel. "You should stay though. Stay at my place; you're completely welcome."

"Man, I'm just glad I don't have to go crawling to Pete again," Brendon says, and doesn't let himself think about that too much -- Brendon intending to stay in town anyway.

Instead, he says, "Can you come tonight? I can probably pick you up after I leave my mom's, or -- "

"We're in a hotel tonight," Brendon says, stopping him. "Everybody's heading back to Vegas tomorrow, but I'll hang around. We'll meet up when you finish tomorrow."

Shia nods at his review mirror, checking around his car and then getting over to make a right at the next light. He's excited. "Yeah," he says. "Tomorrow sounds good, sure."

;;

No offense to Heather the Intern or anything, but it was their coffee date that helped put some key pieces into perspective for Shia. Teresa had been looking for a new intern to help out at Beverly Hecht Agency for a couple months, and Shia had attended a meeting with her about a project in development the week she'd found someone. It was Heather's second day in the office, and Shia recognized the telltale internship nerves, but she had a really strong handshake, so at least she didn't find him intimidating like the last person Teresa had had around. Over the course of his meeting, Teresa suggested she call around to see about any progress on the deal, and Shia didn't want to set up another meeting, so he opted to take a coffee break, inviting Heather to shirk her duties for a little bit and accompany the clientele.

They had gotten into Shia's car and passed up the Starbucks right around the corner on North Hollywood Way to head down the road ten minutes to the Coffee Bean. Heather preferred their chocolate blends to Starbucks mocha, and Shia had time to kill before going back to talk more business with Teresa. They'd sat in the cafe, speaking amiably about where she was from, similar interests in music, and Shia promised her that she'd like working with Teresa. Shia's been at the same agency his entire career, and he trusts Teresa like no one else.

More than an hour had passed while they sat in that Coffee Bean, laughing and talking, and Heather's nerves dissipated. She was pretty, a blonde with a killer smile, and under other circumstances, Shia probably would have asked her out. Working for Teresa be damned, he'd wait until her couple months at the agency were up and then they'd hang out, enjoy one another, but as he'd sat with her, he played internal what-ifs and yet simultaneously realized that he had no intentions of that this round.

He could, but he didn't, and it unsettled him for a full day after, ignoring the itch in his fingers until it felt almost compulsory to grab his cell and send a message to Brendon, just asking him what he was up to that day.

That afternoon is on his mind all evening: as he leaves Kimmel, while he's visiting his mother, and even after he heads home, driving out of Tujunga. He doesn't get as much sleep as he'd like, thanks to coming in late and needing to wake up early, so his thoughts easily spill over once he wakes. Shia works through his obligations for the morning, a simple pick-up and then figuring out last minute changes to his press schedule with his manager, and he's still thinking about Brendon all the way to hotel, right up to the moment Brendon throws his bag and backpack in the back and slips into the passenger seat.

"Sorry if you had to chill for forever," Shia says. "I expected to be done earlier."

"It wasn't bad. Don't worry about it." Brendon flips his sunglasses up on to his head, closing his door. "I helped the other guys get out this morning, and we had the rooms booked until tomorrow. I left my shit upstairs and went to grab lunch."

"So you're not hungry?" Shia says, because he's kind of really fucking starved. "I haven't eaten since like 6AM, man."

Brendon says, "No, no, let's pick a spot. You can eat, and I'll order dessert or whatever, it's cool."

They pick The Cheesecake Factory, because if anyone's going to have dessert, they might as well do it up right. The restaurant lighting is always lower in there, too, so they sit in a booth and relax, Shia laughing with Brendon, glad to see him again. He's been dizzy lately, thinking around the obvious, and he cuts Brendon off in middle of saying, "But Pete's always -- you don't really go over there, do you? If you have time, you should come with me the next -- "

"I missed you," Shia says and feels inexplicably ridiculous. Brendon's taken aback, but he recovers fast, smiling easy.

He says, "You could have called more, if you wanted."

Laughing, Shia says, "Dude, I did _all_ the calling. I worried about being a nag."

"I'm, like, I'm fucking shitty at giving people enough space, sometimes, and we're doing the whole -- you know," Brendon says, tapping his fork on his plate idly. "I figured the move was yours, so."

That might be fair. They'd sort of agreed that they weren't anything, really, while Brendon was away, but Brendon's his friend, too. He's one of his _closer_ buddies now. Shia says, "But that didn't have to be not talking at all. We're friends and everything."

"Yeah," Brendon says, taking another bite of cheesecake, and then he sets his fork down and says. "Okay, but. Okay, if I'm honest though, I guess I didn't really think of it that way."

That's probably even more fair. Shia bites his lip, thinking, and then he nods, trying to hold Brendon's eyes and not look down at his hands. Most people don't get to Shia this much. He prides himself on being able to hold his ground and face people directly, but Brendon gets under his skin somehow. There's nothing that should be unnerving about the guy, but he does that to Shia, and that might be the whole point.

After a moment, Shia drums his fingertips on the table and leans back, saying, "Alright, I think I'm done with this. Are you ready to go?"

The day has quite a few hours left to it yet, but they decide to stop by Shia's to at least let Brendon drop his belongings. They can figure out a plan there. Shia gets onto the freeway heading south, letting Brendon control the radio. Nothing but commercials filter in, so Brendon leaves in on one of the pre-programmed stations randomly and sits back in his seat.

"Do you have to leave town for press?" Brendon asks.

"Unfortunately," Shia says. "I have to fly to New York for a couple days soon -- wow, really soon, I hadn't thought about it -- and then come right back because I'm still working."

"That blows."

"The back and forth is the part that always kills me." Shia glances over at Brendon, saying, "You can still stay in my place while I'm gone, obviously. I can give you the key."

"I can stay with Pete, too," Brendon says. "He always wants people to come visit for at least a night."

"Whatever you want," Shia says, clearing his throat. He thinks about insisting, but he doesn't know how that'll come off. It's become abundantly clear to him that he's not as impulsive as he once thought he was. Sort of impulsive, but not exceptionally. He fucking over-thinks everything about Brendon, is what it is, and in that moment decides to add, "And, hey, okay, can I, uh."

He stops and Brendon turns to him, waiting. Shia shifts in his seat, watching Brendon out of his periphery. He takes a breath and tries again, saying, "Alright, slap some sense into me if I'm way off here -- if you're not into it -- but there's the premiere at the Arclight in like a week or so."

Saying just that much seems like an accomplishment, and Shia hasn't even gotten anywhere yet. He steals a quick look at Brendon, who scratches his thigh and waits more. Swiping his hand over his knee, he at least says, "Yeah, I know. I think you told me about it."

"Right, right," Shia says. "And we wouldn't -- it doesn't have to be a big, like, _night_ since it's a press thing, but if you wanted to." He motions between himself and Brendon. Sort of at Brendon. Vaguely at Brendon. "We could, if you wanted."

Brendon frowns, furrowing his brow, and then his eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. He says, "Whoa, are you asking me," and then leans in as if anyone else is around to hear them, "you want me to be your date for your premiere?"

"It's probably a shitty suggestion --"

"It's just kind of -- "

"-- but, yeah. Yeah, I'm asking," Shia says, more volume behind the repetition of the words. He clears his throat and lifts a shoulder. "It's a thought."

"That it is," Brendon agrees, laughing softly. His fingers flutter on his leg and then pause, Brendon dipping his head forward and exhaling in another odd stream of chuckles that make Shia's mouth quirk, increasingly uneasy.

Shia says, "Look, we can scrap the idea if it's too whatever."

"No. Or yes." Brendon's face snaps up again, looking at Shia as if he's anxious to give the answer and half-confused by his own words. "I think I want to do it, I meant. I've never been to an Arclight premiere or anything."

"It's okay," Shia says, tentative smile splitting into a grin he forgets to reign in. His heart is in his feet, and he grips the steering wheel tighter. "I think that place is owned by Scientologists -- really, yeah? You want to?"

Brendon laughs louder and throws his hand up once, twice, but he's sporting the same cheesy, baffled smile. He says, "Fuck, dude, I don't know. Yeah. Yeah, sure."

"Okay," Shia says, adjusting his review mirror. There's nothing wrong with it but he does it anyway, grinning wide now. "Okay, good."

Shia gets by on some kind of huge joy for the rest of the day. He should be more tired than he is, short on sleep and running long on things done. He's energized by excitement and the kind of pride that comes from something going right, the way he wants, and he's happy to bask in that for hours.

By the time he gets sleepy, he and Brendon have call it quits for the night, crashing in Shia's living room. Shia lies out on the floor while Brendon's got his limbs spread out haphazardly over the couch. His watch reads the time as ten to eleven, and he says, "Jesus, I woke up at three-thirty this morning."

"How are you conscious right now?" Brendon asks. They're holding conversation without seeing one another, both on their back and gazing upward.

Shia says, "I won't be in a few minutes. Watch me fall asleep right on this floor."

"The bed's not _that_ far away," Brendon says. He flips himself around, propping up on his elbow. "Want some help?"

"I doubt I'm going to get up on my own."

Shia lifts his head barely an inch and drops back on the floor again. His skull thuds dully, and he winces. Brendon reaches a hand down after he stands, planting his feet and hauling Shia forward. Balancing, Shia rests his free hand on Brendon's shoulder.

He says, "I think I knocked my brain loose."

"Bull. You hardly fell back hard at all," Brendon says, squeezing Shia's hand.

"I'm a sensitive flower."

"I don't want to know about your flower." Brendon edges back, and Shia laughs, holding onto his fingers. The smile on Brendon's face softens, fades, and the toe of his shoe touches Shia's. He isn't playing now, regarding Shia with a curiosity born of fatigue, his head gradually tilting to the side lazily as he asks, "Does this mean that this is, uh. Just -- did you invite me over here to sleep in the second bedroom?"

"The second bedroom isn't quality?" Shia asks, joking, and Brendon tightens his grip on Shia's hand again but doesn't speak. Shia counts it every time his eyes drift shut briefly, as ready for bed as Shia feels. "Don't pass out on your feet."

Brendon snorts at the warning. He says, "It's almost too late for that."

"Right," Shia says, shaking his head to force some clarity. He tugs Brendon toward the bedroom, their hands dropping once they start walking but Shia can sense Brendon behind him, hear his shoes shuffle on the floor.

In the bedroom, Shia doesn't bother turning on the lamp. He knows his room well. He strips off his shirt, and Brendon touches his back. Shia guides them to the bed that way, reaching behind himself to scrape fingertips at Brendon's side blindly. He leaves Brendon at one side and moves around the other to kick out of his pants and fall onto the bed. They've left the living room light switched on, Shia notices as he looks toward Brendon and can make out his silhouette undressing the opposite way, pants first and shedding his shirt second.

Shis lifts his legs to scrunch them and get under the covers when Brendon lifts the blankets as he slides into bed. It's like a band-aid, Shia figures, either rip quick or move agonizingly slow, so he exhales and extends his hand to Brendon, scooting closer without hesitation.

"Alright?" Shia asks in the darkness, palm resting on Brendon's belly. Brendon still isn't talking, and Shia thinks that maybe his eyes have already closed, but he reaches down and links their fingers, anyway. For the hell of it. Because he wants.

;;

Shia dated China for three years, through a lot of firsts, including buying his two-bedroom. She came with him and his mom to view the place, and she was there when he signed the papers, and he woke up next to her enough times before they broke up that letting anyone stay over inevitably reminded him of her. He's dated other girls for short periods; he's fucked, and then let girls stay through the night, but he's also consistently woken up and had momentary lapses where he expected the person next to him to be her.

He opens his eyes, and China crosses his mind but only in contrasts. Brendon's weight fits against Shia differently. His hair isn't cut short, but it's nothing like waking with long hair tickling his neck and chest. Shia has his arm wrapped around Brendon's middle instead of resting atop him, like a sleep hug, and Shia can feel that he's broader, more angles and less softness. They've done this, but not in Shia's home, in his bed, and Shia allows himself to take in the sound of emptiness beyond the bed's warmth. Shia's going to remember this. Brendon is a first.

Shia kisses his forehead, suffering Brendon's disoriented retaliation. He swats at Shia without really looking, mumbling about how he was getting to the good part of his sleep.

"Mn, you're ruining it. I'm tired," Brendon continues, words smashed together.

"I'm sorry," Shia says.

"And watching someone sleep is creepy."

"I was trying to get you to wake up with my mind," Shia says, tapping his fingers against Brendon's ribs. "I concentrated really hard on beaming 'get up, get up, get up now' into your brain."

Brendon groans, blinking several times and finally giving in to wakefulness. "That's a shitty thing to want to do to me."

"Sorry," Shia says again, letting his hand drag lower and push into Brendon's underwear. Brendon gasps, Shia rubbing his hand over Brendon's cock. "Better?"

"Getting there," Brendon says, closing his eyes again and breathing in deep through his nose.

Shia revels in the way Brendon breathes while Shia jerks him off, pulling in shorter and shorter gulps of air. He takes his time, tightening his grip, and noting the way Brendon bites down on his lower lip right before he comes. Shia wipes his hand on Brendon's underwear and scratches his stomach softly. Yeah. Yeah, he's sure he'd started to miss this already.

"You're off for the whole month, right?"

"Mhm," Brendon says. "Or, basically. We might have a couple other radio shows or something."

"Do you want to come to New York with me this week?"

"With you."

"Or by yourself, and then coincidentally find yourself in the same hotel," Shia says, and Brendon smiles, amused.

He stretches his arms over his head and kicks the covers off of them. "The same room, in fact."

"Those kind of mix-ups happen all the time."

Brendon laughs, wiggling up on the pillows some to align their faces better. "Morning."

"Hey."

"I want to go to New York with you," Brendon says.

Shia's officially two for three. It's a great way to have his morning kick off. He licks his lips and goes for the home stretch, asking, "Can I kiss you?"

Brendon nods soft, pushing his face across the small divide, closed mouth brushing over Shia's. He's always been headstrong. Whether something makes him nervous or apprehensive at first, once Shia determines that he's invested in something, he falls into it. He likes Brendon -- as an acquaintance, as a real friend, and in this nebulous period that has them both searching for titles and ways to define them. He likes kissing Brendon, having that access to him and giving it of himself in return. He wants more of it.

The New York and Los Angeles temperatures match, but they walk outside on the east coast and the humidity makes their skin stickier. A car takes them to the hotel, and Shia slides in next to Brendon and decides that traveling together is something else he enjoys. Brendon takes off his glasses and sings along with the radio, asking the driver if he minds if they blast the volume.

Shia has a lot of work to get done with New York press. He does some of the interviews with Michelle, but several other appearances are solo. They have a junket and spend a lot of hours cycling through interviews for print and online clips, and then Brendon always comes out to eat with them after.

"This promo thing is awesome when I don't have to talk," Brendon says, and Shia flips him off, much to Brendon's amusement, but the truth is that Shia's usually a little more anxious to just get through things when he has to deal with media in the middle of filming. He is still working on Transformers, ready to go back to the project, but the run around of the press squeezed into two days doesn't overwhelm him as much when he can shake it off and chill with Brendon during the down moments.

Shia mentions that in an interview, the reporter following up a question about working with Michael Bay, who's so known for his demanding methods by saying, "But you're still in the middle of finishing that one up, aren't you? You're on location for _Transformers 2_?"

"Yeah, we're still doing that now," Shia says, folding his hands in his lap. "The schedule's different this time around. They've broken things up to try to maximize the time even more because there are way more explosions and stunts. We're on a five-month schedule, and that's the _concise_ version, you know? But it means that I then have to fly out to do this stuff and jump back to LA to work again."

"It must be hard to remove yourself from that head space and turn it on again," she says.

"For sure. That's such a huge production, and you've got Bay yelling at you about what kind of crazy effects are going to happen in a scene all day, then this is hectic in a different way. Be here, go there, do that, and then hop on this plane, but I've got a buddy out with me this time. Having people around who are gonna help me take a minute to laugh or chill is keeping me sane. I don't feel as wired as I did when I was filming the first _Transformers_ movie and promoting _Bobby_."

"So, the key is to have good people around you?"

Shia says, "Definitely, definitely. I believe it."

He appreciates having Brendon there to bring his mind to other subjects when Shia needs at least a mental break from thinking about work. They don't get time to see the city, but they make use of a private room, leaving dinners with Michelle and DJ to sneak his hands beneath Brendon's clothes. Brendon kisses him quiet, words and thoughts, and Shia welcomes it all.

;;

It takes longer for them to get checked into the airport leaving New York, because they run into some paparazzi, which is always a minor setback. Shia doesn't warrant the droves some popstars deal with regularly, but they're all the same type of pushy, no matter how many show up. It's just obnoxious to have people snapping your picture with huge flashes while you're going through security. He's happier once they're on the other side and then boarding the aircraft. Brendon sits on the inside, next to the window, and halfway through the in-flight movie, he dozes off, head lolling onto Shia's shoulder. Shia has to push him over toward the window, but he snaps a picture with his phone first.

Back in Los Angeles, Shia's obligations don't let up, so he handles business while Brendon hangs out. Ryan comes into town to hang out with Pete, and Brendon insists that this time Shia has to come to do something with the three of them, because Pete's beginning to think Brendon's deliberately trying to prevent Pete from finding out just how cool it is to get to hang out with Optimus Prime.

"Not that I actually do," Shia says, laughing.

"Don't crush his dreams, dude," Brendon says, giggling harder than Shia. "He may never believe in fairytales again."

Shia has to take another rain check the first time Brendon goes over to Pete's, but he promises he'll make it over before Ryan leaves town again. He's out all day, running from place to place, and when he finally finishes for the day, Shia calls his mom to tell her he's bringing over pie as dessert for whatever she wants for dinner.

"Are implying that you want me to cook you something?"

"You can order it, Ma," Shia says. "I didn't bake this cherry pie, so we're even."

When he gets to her house, he learns that she was messing with him. She'd already made some pasta, intending to have portions leftover for later, but she fixes a plate for herself and for Shia instead. He really enjoys his parents' company, and his mother doesn't spend time on set the way she used to now that he doesn't need to have a guardian. So he makes sure to touch base regularly, even if using half the stuff in her tiny house is almost a cruel torture some days. Buying a house originally built for someone under four feet isn't anything he'd have ever considered beyond his mother, but Shia still sometimes wishes she hadn't for accessibility's sake. Shia isn't the tallest guy, but he isn't short enough not to feel inconvenienced by the way the toilets in her place are built either.

"Were you free today?" she asks, sitting down with him to eat.

"No, I was in Pasadena earlier," Shia says. "And then Glendale. I had a bunch of stuff to take care of for _Eagle_ and then some post looping."

"And you got hungry."

"And I _missed_ you," Shia tries. His mother holds up a hand, unimpressed.

She says, "You're funny," pointing and watching him with a wary eye. "I already made you dinner, and you want something else."

"No, I missed you! What, I can't just want to see you? Ma," Shia says, but he's already grinning too wide. It's mostly her though. She just makes him laugh, he swears.

His mother waves off his laughter and asks, "Where's that friend? The boy with the bracelets. I thought you said he was staying with you again."

"Yeah, Brendon," Shia says. "He's visiting friends."

"I like his spirit." She pushes her food around her plate, always making sure what she's eating is in a neat pile in the center of her plate. "He's got a smile every time I see him, or the only two times, because he's a sneaky fox, too, who doesn't come around more. He needs to come say hi."

"I'll tell him."

"He likes to sing, too." She hums airily, and Shia listens, comfortable to sit back and let his mother drift off on one of her distracted tangents. She's humming Bobbie Gentry this time, and he doesn't have the heart to tell her that he's never heard Brendon sing any of that.

Instead, he bounces his leg under the table and asks, "Are you coming to the premiere? You can say hi to Brendon there."

"He's staying around for that? I don't want to get dressed up," she says, interspersing her words with more of the tune in her head.

"You can wear whatever you want. And he's coming, too, yeah," Shia says, not sure how to say what he knows he should -- what he wants to say to her. He wipes his hands on the napkin next to his plate. "Brendon's going with me. You both are, but he's gonna be like. Like, you know Grandma? Dad's mom?"

"I'm familiar with your grandmother, Shia, yes," she says, smiling at him like he's the one who's just spun off on a tangent.

Shia says, "No, I know, but it's like her and her stories. When she used to talk about coming out here because of Elaine, and how Great Gram didn't like it. Me and Brendon, we're -- I asked him to come to the premiere with me."

It feels strange to try to say it. He still hasn't said the words directly, but his senses are heightened anyway. He thinks he's managed to kill his appetite that fast, and he can't put his finger on why since this is mother, and he knows her. He knows better than to expect anything other than the way she looks him without responding for a minute, collecting the jumble of his words and organizing them in her head carefully.

All she says is, "You could have brought him here to tell me that."

Shia laughs, slumping in his chair. He says, "No, no, I promise, he's visiting some friends. I'm not keeping him away."

"Good thing," she says, standing up to dispose of her minimal leftovers and put her plate in the dishwasher. "Because that's too bad, you're dating that boy and you don't want to bring him here again." She stops and looks to Shia. "You did mean you asked him out, correct?"

"Yeah, I meant that we're dating," Shia says, sucking on the inside of his cheek after he says it and staring ahead intently like the words are floating there, tangible. Shia blinks. "So, are you coming too? You don't have to."

She sighs, tossing her head a little, and then surrendering. She says, "Yes, yes, I'll be there, but I'm going comfortable, okay?"

"You got it," Shia says, mock-saluting her.

;;

"I told my mom," Shia says, a full day later, while Brendon rambles about how he probably needs to buy something that's actually worthy of a premiere. He didn't bring any clothes besides what he had on tour, and that collection consists of mostly t-shirts and jeans and his flip-flops.

Brendon stops in the middle of what he's saying. He instead says, "You told -- what did she say?"

Shia scratches his left shoulder and shrugs. "She's my mom. She just wants you to sing for her again."

Brendon sucks on his teeth, glancing up at the ceiling. He says, "She's coming tonight, you said."

"Mhm," Shia says. "Dude, don't get nervous. It's my mom. She's short and she talks in metaphors about mountains when she's excited."

"I can't believe you told your mom first," Brendon says.

"She likes you," Shia says, truthfully. He'd had an inkling about how much her approval meant to him beforehand, but having it guaranteed and being able to say that to Brendon helps him really understand.

By the night of the premiere, Shia's on cloud nine, excited about the movie. The way everything has been set up, Shia has to be in the area earlier than expected, so he and Brendon pick up Shia's mother and head over into Hollywood. Brendon kisses her hand when she comes out of her house, and she calls him a dashing gentleman for the ages, letting him know that she's not above the backseat so that he can sit next to Shia up front. Brendon laughs, a little awkwardly and insists that he couldn't possibly be okay with that, and Shia doesn't interrupt a second of their interaction for hilarity's sake.

"Where're your accessories, Brendon?" she asks. "You don't have anything decorative tonight."

Brendon holds out his arms and says, "Oh, yeah, because I thought this was formal. I'm pretending to be an adult for a while."

"Oh, you shouldn't let anybody trick you into doing that," she says. "Once you start, you never stop."

"You sound like a Pringles ad, mom," Shia says, catching Brendon's eyes in the rearview mirror, and she tells Shia to leave her alone.

He has to walk the carpet in line with Michelle once they get to the area and figure out the commotion. Brendon takes Shia's mother, and they're ahead of him the whole time. Shia notices Brendon get stopped by a few of the reporters, keeping her near. A lady for E! stops Shia and asks him if he' s proud of the film, and he says that he had a really great time running around Los Angeles as Jerry Shaw.

"I haven't seen a cut of the film at all yet, and it's hard to put it all together when you're filming it, but I trust DJ Caruso as a director," Shia says. "He doesn't settle for anything that doesn't feel genuine."

"Did you bring anybody with you tonight?" she asks.

Shia smiles, laughing, and says, "My mom's around here somewhere," locating her in the crowd, and then pointing. "Yeah, she's down there soaking up the cameras herself, so."

The reporter's pleased by that answer, calling him charming. Shia thanks her before moving on down the line, continuing to sneak glances ahead.

Inside of the theater, away from the wall of flashing cameras and flood lights, Brendon catches up to Shia and says, "That's harder without people to bounce things to, dude."

Shia hears him before he sees him, turning as Brendon's fingers curl over his forearm. He lets them slide down Shia's sleeve and fall away, eyes a little wider. He looks as dazed as Shia always feels coming out of a barrage of press, one camera and microphone after another. Past Brendon, his mom's talking to DJ, gesturing with her hands a lot.

Smirking, Shia says to Brendon, "No, I saw you. You aced them. You act like you've never done it before."

"Not really by myself," Brendon says. "I'm used to having at least one other person there, you know? It's different when it's only me, and premieres -- music award shows are different."

"I don't think it's something you get used to either way," Shia says, and their arms collide as they walk. "You looked good, trust me."

Brendon rolls his eyes, smoothing a palm over the front of his sweater. "Yeah? You're an expert? You're critiquing me?"

"Nah, not quite, no. Come on." Shia touches his knuckles to Brendon's back, guiding him forward, and then he changes his focus when someone comes up on his other side to say hello and shake his hand.

Walking the carpet feels like a breeze in comparison to getting into the theater seats, his mother on one side and Brendon on the other. Shia doesn't know about Brendon, but settling into the dark always makes his stomach sink. Usually, he's just coasting on the nerves that come along with watching himself on screen and trying to keep the waves of embarrassment under control. He's a prime example of someone being his own worst critic when it comes to screening, but tonight he's distracted by the way the fluttering in his body echoes, nerves he first felt weeks ago, across the country. The hotel room in D.C. feels like forever ago and yesterday simultaneously.

Shia shifts his elbow on the armrest more than a few times, until his shoulder presses into Brendon's just barely. He's leaning too far right in his seat, foolish and impulsive, and he doesn't look back when he senses Brendon turn his head to see him. Shia presses his lips together tight, watching Rachel run on screen, and the side of Brendon's shoe bumps his own on the floor. Shia bites the inside of his lip and holds his breath.

In the span of time between just yesterday and forever, they ended up here: Brendon pushing the bottom Shia's pant leg higher with the heel of his shoe, and Shia hooking their pinkies under the assumption (the hope) that film explosions keep all eyes elsewhere.

;;

Getting people to clear out always takes a while. The glad-handing and general afterparty environment can go on for hours, but Shia's not really in the mood to stick to that long after sitting in the theatre with Brendon, teasing each other at best. Having his mom present gives Shia an excuse to call it an early night without coming off rude. He and Brendon take his mother home, and as soon as he's said goodnight, kissing her cheek and letting her get a hug from Brendon, Shia practically feels like speeding to his own house.

They tug at each others as soon as they're in Shia's living room, with the front door shut. Shia tosses his keys toward the general vicinity of the coffee table but only lands them on the floor near it, and Brendon laughs right against his mouth.

"In a hurry?" Brendon asks.

"Kind of," Shia says, letting Brendon push his suit jacket off his shoulders and letting it fall. They shuffle sideways through the house at an erratic pace, Brendon half-naked in his good pants and Shia with his fly undone and shirt open as they get into the hallway.

In the bedroom, Brendon pushes the heels of his hands at Shia's pants, getting them down around his waist as they topple back onto the bed. He clings to Shia, urgent but never successful in their position. Shia reaches to grab Brendon's forearms, holding tight and pulling away. He gets rid of his pants and then helps Brendon wriggle free as well, and they probably shouldn't just leave good clothes on the floor, but Shia's more interested in dropping to his knees. He pulls Brendon's underwear off as well, wrapping a hand around his dick and stroking him to hardness before ducking in to kiss the head and lick from tip to base along the side.

"Spread your legs more," Shia says, kissing Brendon's thigh and half-mumbling it into Brendon's skin. He gains better access once Brendon does, taking in as much of his cock as he can and pulling back slow.

Brendon keens, trying to hold still. His muscles twitch under Shia's hand where he rests it for balance, jerking the base of Brendon's cock with the other. Shia thinks about trying to take Brendon deeper, but he's not that bold, slipping his fingers down to massage Brendon's balls as an alternative, earning a thin whimper from Brendon, restrained but telling. The more he tries this, the more Shia thinks he's getting used to it, the thickness of Brendon's cock between his lips and the measured, appreciative sounds that come out in rhythmless bursts.

Shia can't deep-throat, but he's curious enough to let his hand dip lower, suckling the head of Brendon's dick and tracing the cleft of his ass. Above him, Brendon grunts and grips Shia's hand on his thigh, panting, "Wait -- are you -- "

"I can get stuff," Shia says, raising his head and pushing his finger between but not determined to do anything yet. Soon. "I won't do it dry, I know."

"Shia," Brendon says, looking down at him. He yanks Shia up, maneuvering on the mattress so that their legs don't clear the edge beyond their ankles.

Brendon's skin is warm against Shia's body, and he's so gone already. Shia kisses him, sneaking in tongue and grinding his hips into Brendon because he's so hard, suddenly very ready. He exhales in rush with his face pressed into Brendon's skin, nipping at the skin, and he whispers that, "I want to fuck you. Is it okay if I want to fuck you?"

"Shit," Brendon grits out between clench teeth. His chin juts higher as he shoves his head back, jamming into the bed as much as possible.

Shia's rolls his hips again, saying, "We'll do it slow. If you want to."

"I've already," Brendon says, squeezing his hand over Shia's hip and bearing his thrusts. "I've already done it."

"What?" Shia rears back, hovering over Brendon and unsure if he's heard right. "What?"

That halts him, Brendon breathing in and out in large collections of air. Shia searches his face and thinks about asking again, but Brendon says, "Once before."

Shia narrows his eyes, lost. "Wait, I thought. You said you'd only -- "

"Recently," Brendon says, wincing like he can't believe he's even speaking at the moment. "In Australia, I was with. I just did it."

He's confusing the whole moment. Shia's stretched against Brendon, his cock pressed against Brendon's hip, and in an instantaneous shift, he's now trying to imagine Brendon in Australia. Shia's trying to see a hotel room, Brendon lying down with someone, and it's hard to picture, hard to stomach. He asks, "Who? No, nevermind."

"It was just a guy," Brendon says. He lifts his hips, grappling for Shia's bicep. "Fuck, I don't -- I don't know why, or why I'm telling you."

Shia can still hardly wrap his head around the image: Brendon going through the motions of flirtation and hooking up. During that month, Shia never tried. He doesn't think he ever considered it, really, either, trying to gauge interest in other guys. That thought surges forward and punches him in the chest for the first time in a while -- another _guy_. Shia's here with Brendon, around but stalled, and once again Brendon's got one up on him in a way Shia hadn't been expecting.

"Are you gay?" he blurts, looking down at Brendon.

Brendon frowns, shoving at Shia's arm and saying harshly, "What the hell? I don't know, are _you_?"

He covers his face, rubbing his hands over his eyes and gritting his teeth. Brendon doesn't know. Shia tries to scroll through faces of anyone that comes to mind -- celebrities, friends, Brendon's own bandmates even -- like he's testing himself, but he gets that, too, the not knowing. However, he hasn't laid on his back and let some other guy fuck him in his indecision.

He moves sideways. Brendon's head comes up as soon as Shia flops out beside him. He says, "Wait. Is this -- "

"I need a fucking second," Shia says, because he's realizing in that crazy weight-of-the-world, crashing-epiphany-smacking-him-stupid sort of way that he has no goddamn clue what he's doing right now.

Brendon's looking at him, expression a mix of wariness and frustration, maybe. He touches Shia's arm, and Shia jerks it away. Brendon says, "Fuck, I didn't. It's not a big deal."

"Then why did you _tell_ me?" Shia says, voice more biting that he expects.

"I guess -- I don't know. I thought you should know," says Brendon, sighing harshly again. "Fuck," he says, and Shia rushes in, angling to kiss Brendon, hand across his cheek. His fingertips graze the edges of Brendon's hair. Shia moans into it, and Brendon opens his mouth more, crossing one of his legs over Shia's lap. Maybe Shia can do this. They can find the rhythm again, and Shia can go with it, and he won't think about Brendon elsewhere, someone else touching his body, shorting his breath, and pushing into him, fucking him.

"I don't," Shia mutters, freezing. "I can't right now." His dick has other ideas, but Shia's head hates him with a passion apparently. Brendon reaches down to palm him, and Shia grunts, shifting hips back, away.

Brendon lets it happen, saying, "Don't -- what?"

"It's just," Shia says, leaving the statement that way, He wants to kiss Brendon and punch him in the arm simultaneously, so he settles for getting up and going in the bathroom, hearing Brendon curse again as he closes the door.

Fuck. Jesus fucking _Christ_. Shia shakes out his hands, plants them on the sink and stares at himself. He's letting the situation spin out of control. Shia cuts on the water, splashes his face, swipes his wet hand across the back of his neck, and tries to get a goddamn grip. There's no reason he should be wussing out, picking up and hiding in the bathroom. He's not this pathetic.

Shia dries his hands on his shorts, opening the bathroom door with the intention of going back and facing Brendon. He's in control of this, of himself, and he's going to --

Except Brendon's not in the bedroom anymore. His clothes remain strewn on the floor, so Shia knows he hasn't ditched completely. He stands in his room for a moment and consoles his ego a little by thinking that, hey, at least if they're both running from things then Shia isn't the alone in fumbling all of this.

He doesn't have to search hard once he walks into the hall. The door to the second bedroom is open for a change. Shia enters, letting his hand slip along the wall as his eyes adjust. The light coming through the window doesn't make the room too much brighter, but it draws his eyes to the glow at the edges of the curtains first and then Brendon on his side. He lies on top of the comforter, and Shia doesn't hesitate long before climbing onto the mattress with him but keeping a small distance.

"You didn't have to leave," he says, whispering.

"Didn't really have much reason to think otherwise," Brendon says, a beat late. He continues to speak toward the window even as he adds, "You don't get to be pissed off about Australia. We weren't together. You made that really clear beforehand, remember?"

"I'm not mad." Shia says. Most of the fight in him is gone now, that push/pulll settling in his limbs and just making him as tired as Brendon sounds. "I get that you are, though. Sorry."

"You apologize a lot."

Shia runs his knuckles along Brendon's spine, cautious. "More like, I keep having shit I need to apologize for."

"Hm."

Brendon doesn't offer anything else, really. He rearranges himself, not flipping around, but Shia thinks he might just edge backward on the blankets some, a ceasefire. He can tell that Brendon hasn't quite shaken all of his annoyance, but prolonging the conversation seems like more effort than Brendon must be willing to give. Shia keeps stroking his back, which is probably kind of a lame substitute for getting to come, but Brendon eventually relaxes enough to sleep.

They half-wake a couple hours later, because Brendon shifts, tipping onto his back. Disoriented, Shia has the sense to register that there's something positive in that action, but he says, "Dude, stop moving."

Brendon grunts and flops around more. He says. "We're sleeping in the guest room."

" _You_ brought us in here," says Shia, bumping Brendon's arm. Brendon angles his face toward Shia, harder to see in the darkness, so pushing closer to try to kiss Brendon tentatively feels like a journey. Shia makes it though, brushing their mouths gently, like another apology. Brendon's drowsy enough not to protest.

"It's the middle of the night," Brendon says.

Shia says, "I know," rocking over more so that he can access Brendon properly.

The kisses start lazily and lead them to a point where Shia works his leg between Brendon's, kissing him open-mouthed, sloppier. His arms burn with the tension necessary to hold him at the right angle, and Brendon rolls his hips experimentally. They're nearly back where they started earlier, almost. Shia's gut drops the same way, caught in a free-fall, but instead of stopping he takes a breath and asks, "Is it still okay? Would you want --"

"Yeah. C'mere, yeah."

He can do this. Shia jerks his hips, grinding against Brendon, flushing hot and hard again. Brendon nods, winding a hand up and grabbing the back of Shia's head to kiss him with more force. He's hard too, Shia can feel it between them, and Shia rolls his hips again just to hear Brendon's breathing hitch.

"I gotta -- hold on," Shia says, making Brendon release him. He flops back on the bed, saying, "Okay, okay," as Shia rolls out of bed to do the fastest search he's ever attempted.

He gathers what he needs and returns, one hand curled around lube and condoms and his other nudging at Brendon's leg. Brendon bends his knees, shifting his hips on the bed to wriggle out of his bottoms. Shia watches him in the darkness, settled back on his heels and squeezing lube onto his fingers. He can't make out Brendon's expression entirely, but Shia can tell that his eyes are open, and when Shia covers his knee with his dry hand, Brendon exhales.

He hisses when Shia touches him with slick fingers, feeling the resistance and then the give. He asks, "Does it hurt?"

"Not really," Brendon says, although he doesn't sound like he's comfortable either. He doesn't demand Shia stop, instead asking him to thrust deeper, slow, and the heat in Shia's stomach flares as a strangled noise sneaks out of Brendon.

"Yeah?" he asks, smiling. He's not sure Brendon can see it, so he puts his mouth to a different use, curling over to kiss Brendon's stomach, down to his cock and licking enough to tease.

"Mhm," Brendon says, riding it out as Shia uses one finger, then two, then three, and Brendon tugs at Shia's hair as soon as he takes the head of Brendon's cock into his mouth, cuing him. "Alright," he says. "Alright."

Shia's nervous as hell as he preps Brendon, fingering him for longer still, and asking more times than necessary if he's okay, if it's okay, until Brendon demands that he, "Just. Just keep," as he grips Shia's arm tight. Getting the condom rolled on is slightly more difficult with almost no light, but they work it out, Shia holding his cock. He brushes the head against Brendon's skin, feeling him, adding a certain pressure, but he's not _in_. When he does it, he moves quicker than he intends, pushing in and making Brendon gasp, the two of them halting. Brendon's blunts nails hook on Shia's skin, clinging tight, and even when Brendon grants him permission to move, Shia goes agonizingly slow. _Too_ slow, maybe, because Brendon punches him in the arm and says, "Do it, or pull out," gritting his teeth, and there's something satisfying about the way he stutters the second Shia thrusts harder. His mouth goes slack, and they fuck like that, up at 3AM in the second bedroom with the rest of the house silent and the harsh sound of their breathing filling up the space.

A lot runs through Shia's head at first, about Brendon and how he's done this. Shia has no clue if this is better, if this is even good. Fuck whoever that other guy was, and fuck Shia's own stupid idea to wait. Random thoughts card through his head, one after the other, and then the incessant hum breaks down to only the same clipped phrases that come out of his mouth. All he's got is Brendon's name and random, disconnected swearing against skin. There have been a couple instances before this where Brendon's told Shia all about his inability to shut up. He's a talker in bed with girls, he's said, but Brendon stays noticeably quiet right now, communicating in gasps and groans and small physical cues -- back-arching and hands clenching on Shia's skin, matching Shia's energy whenever Shia bends forward to close the negative space between them.

"Say something," he prompts, and Brendon opens his mouth as if he wants to try but fails, biting hard on his lip. Brendon is tight and warm everywhere Shia touches him, and he can't handle the quiet. "Brendon."

"I can't think of," Brendon says, stretching his arm over his head, scrabbling at the wall behind him.

Shia braces Brendon hips, jerking in quick. He tries it again and again, and Brendon moans, reaching for his own cock. Three o'clock in the morning, their breaths punctuated by the occasional sharp slap of skin, and Shia comes inside of Brendon, crushing the fingers of Brendon's left hand in his own. Shia mouths at Brendon's skin, slumping forward to kiss his face, his cheek, barely catch his mouth, and Brendon comes over their bellies, Shia still settled inside him but less urgent.

He pulls out carefully, Brendon scrunching his face at the sensation. It sends a chill through Shia as he opts to remove and dispose of the condom before he's thought about where he's actually going to toss it. He doesn't want to get out of bed. His senses are too heightened to think about this too seriously, so he drops the condom on the floor and figures, fuck it, he'll get it later. Their skin sort of sticks a little where they touch, not exactly sweaty. Hot, but not so uncomfortable that Shia wants to get his bearings and move.

"I'm being crushed here," Brendon says underneath him. He bucks.

"Deal with it," Shia says, pinching Brendon's side. The hum comes back to him, rattling in his brain, and Shia can't pick a single useful thought from the rush of it as he looks at Brendon, grateful when Brendon does him a favor, lifting his head and kissing Shia until everything else gets shoved aside, less important.

"In the morning, maybe we can again." He breaks the kiss with his murmuring.

"I have to go somewhere."

Brendon says, "Ah, okay. You got off, so you don't need me anymore."

He should be used to it, Shia thinks, feeling something spark in him belatedly. He pushes past the leftover spite and lands closer to a desperation, grinding into Brendon once. It's still soon, both of them shivering and weighing anchor with biting grips on skin. Shia kisses as hard as he can, and Brendon grunts when teeth scrape his lip.

"mm," Brendon moans, pained.

"My mistake," Shia says. His hands feel jittery, indecisive but uncontrollable. He starts to apologize yet again at the same time Brendon says, "Be here only. Just me right now," with a note of mocking, something friendly, but it hits Shia exactly the way he needs, disarming him.

 

**11**

Shia's already gotten dressed and left out by the time Brendon feels like getting out of bed. Brendon strolls into the living room, digging his fingers into muscles at his lower back. He kind of aches, though it's not quite like it was the first time. He isn't too sore, just -- reminiscent feels like a good word. He finds a note from Shia saying that he caught a ride with his friend Josh so that Brendon could use his car, and Brendon acknowledges for the fifth time since he's opened his eyes that, oh, yeah, they fucked last night.

There isn't much for him in the house, then, being the only one home, so he gets dressed and heads to Pete's. Ryan's in town because Pete goes through withdrawals. Brendon arrives at Pete's in time to get in on the third batch of pancakes, all shaped like demented versions of the Mickey Mouse logo, because Pete has decided that he's going to relive a highlight from his younger years.

"You're really bad at this," Brendon says, kind of terrified by the deformities that are his pancakes.

"Hey, hey, they're abstract," Pete says, brandishing his spatula like a gavel. He hits it on the table a couple times to cut Brendon off when he opens his mouth again. "I'm like the Picasso of breakfast foods. Or the Warhol. This is like pancake pop art."

Ryan bites what Brendon assumes is supposed to be the ear of one pancake and says, "I can see it."

"Oh, yeah," Brendon says, squinting. He holds out for a good five seconds before Ryan cracks a smile, and then Brendon bursts too. "Sorry."

"What the hell? I feed you and you laugh at my hospitality?" Pete says. He's holding one of the pancakes himself now, flapping it as he speaks. Brendon laughs harder.

Pete's house is always good for lounging and stuffing his face full of slightly burnt eats. He finishes six of those ugly pancakes, smothered in syrup, Pete tells Brendon about how he and Ryan stayed up to watch all the John Hughes movies that Pete has in his house. Ryan does a surprisingly good Anthony Michael Hall impression, Pete claims, but the wunderkind refuses to give a repeat performance.

"Aw, you're killing it," Pete says, and Ryan's expression lets Brendon know how little he really cares.

He says, "Should've been here the first time."

"I'm here today," Brendon says, and he plans to hang around for a while.

Pete eventually goes back to bed for a little longer, because Ashlee hasn't gotten up. Apparently she keeps strange hours now, not quite an insomniac, but sleeping in intervals, and in the middle of Pete reciting something that no doubt came out of a baby handbook, Ryan lets him know that he and Brendon are cool with entertaining one another.

They end up on the patio, smoking out of one of Ryan's glass bowls. He's carrying the one with the small frog on it, Brendon's favorite, because if he stares down the length of the pipe, it's like the frog gazes right back at him as he tokes.

"So I thought you were staying here, too," Ryan says, accepting the pipe when Brendon hands it back.

Brendon shakes his head. "No, I've been staying in Burbank, at Shia's."

"Oh," Ryan says. "That's -- I assumed you were couch-hopping, but you're just staying with him?"

"It's a space thing. These guys have a lot going," Brendon says, indicating Pete's home, which _could_ be true. "And the movie star life is different from ours. He had a premiere last night."

"Ah, living the lavish life some more," Ryan says, and Brendon wonders if he should tell him. At what point does this kind of thing become a band interest? Having them ask about Ethan wasn't enjoyable in any way, shape, or form, but Brendon watches Ryan scratch his nails along the concrete on the patio and supposes it's going to come up eventually. Sooner or later.

Brendon says, "Shane hasn't mentioned anything, has he?"

"About what?" Ryan pulls his sunglasses away from his face some to squint at the sun. He shields his eyes again just as quickly as he uncovers them.

Brendon tilts his head to one side, then other, trying to make a decision. He says, "It doesn't have to be a big deal," which he feels like he uses to preface a lot lately. "Shia already told his mother about us, so I mean..." He cracks his knuckles, facing outward. Ryan's still visible in his periphery. He folds his hands over his knees, sniffing, and when he looks over, Brendon turns his head to him. "So, yeah."

Ryan doesn't visibly react at first. He presses his lips together, and Brendon can't see his eyes through the shades. As long as he's known Ryan, there's still more guess work that goes into predicting how Ryan will take the information people lay on him.

When he speaks, Ryan simply asks, "Does Pete know?"

"No," Brendon says, bemused by the question. Of all the people to ask about, Brendon would've expected Spencer or Jon first. Ryan jobs screws up his mouth after asking and nods. "Only Shane. And you, now."

"He didn't say anything to me," Ryan says. "But I haven't seen him in the last fews days."

"He kind of knew before." Brendon smoothes out the edges of his shirt, glancing down at his lap for a moment and then at Ryan again. "This last week isn't just, um." He doesn't know how to sum it up in a short, neat sentence. "I guess it's complicated."

"So, Australia..."

"Not then. Who the fuck knows, actually," Brendon says, laughing at the fact that he really, honestly doesn't know how he should talk to Ryan about it. "Right now it's like I'm telling you some secret or something, but it's not like I even really thought about hiding anything. We've been going with it. It just sort of happened, but he told his mother, and now I'm telling you."

Ryan scratches his hand, the sunglasses remaining a shield. Brendon's almost tempted to ask him to take them off. Ryan asks, "Are you going to tell Spencer and Jon?"

"Should I not?"

"That's not what I'm saying. I'm not trying to hint at something," Ryan says. "I'm asking."

Brendon doesn't want to sit down and have a series of heart-to-hearts, but, "Maybe. Probably." He curls his leg underneath himself and says, "I doubt this is just this week, I mean."

"Okay."

"Or, I don't want it to be," Brendon says, straightforward. He swings around to face Ryan directly. "Ross, give me something here."

"What do you want me to tell you?" Ryan holds up his hands. "I'm listening. You said it wasn't a big deal."

"It's not," Brendon says, snorting. He scratches his head and lounges in his chair again. "Thanks."

Ryan shrugs, settling back into his chair as well. That has to count as some sort of acknowledgment or a 'you're welcome.' He's not sure why he wants that, but it does help Brendon feel better. They chill outside for a while, and then Pete makes everyone in the house participate in a peanut butter and jelly assembly line for lunch. Brendon's in charge of the two sides of bread together after Ashlee and Ryan smear on the necessary ingredients.

"Brendon, you're like a PB&J visionary there," Pete says, and Brendon takes a bow, then holds the edge of the plate of sandwiches and shows them off with the other.

Ashlee says, "You might have also missed your calling as a QVC host."

Ryan laughs. He says, "Please don't tell me you buy from there."

"Pete has."

"Don't try to judge me." Pete tilts his chin higher, above all of them. Ryan's unimpressed.

"Shia buys Dodgers memorabilia and shit," Brendon offers.

" _Thank_ you," Pete says, eyeing Ryan. "See? It's useful." To Brendon, Pete says, "I don't even know what's up with that guy. You have his car?"

Brendon says, "Yeah, he's riding with a friend of his today. He'll probably come by here later, if that's cool."

"We don't care," Ashlee says.

"Yo, I saw a bunch of pictures of you at JFK with him the other day," Pete says, walking down the line to get to the end of the counter where the nourishment waits. "I didn't know you flew out there."

"He had press," Brendon says. "I was bored."

"The only thing less fun than going through security check is getting photographed while you're going through security," Pete says. "Watch out for that. They get started, and then they might not go the fuck away."

"It only happens when I'm around him." Brendon picks up the plate and holds it out for Ashlee to take her first sandwich, and then Ryan. He doesn't linger with Ryan, spinning back around to set down the dish. "I don't have to be around it."

"Lucky," Pete says, and Brendon smiles.

The afternoon passes without much fanfare, fun but light. Brendon's thinking about going for thirds when Shia shows up at Pete's house, Josh dropping him and not sticking around to join the party.

"He's trying to buy some art supplies before his favorite spot closes," Shia says, excusing his friend as Pete lets him come inside. Brendon hangs around in the living room, waiting, and he wills himself not to sneak a glance at Ryan as Shia enters. Shia smiles, shaking Pete's hand as he apologizes for crashing the party. "Brendon said he'd be here though, and he's got my car."

"Don't worry, dude," Pete says. Shia says hello to Ashlee, and then Ryan as he moves to take up a spot next to Brendon on Pete's couch. They're not touching, but Brendon marks the difference between being with Shia around Shane, who'll ignore it if Brendon ignores it first, and Ryan openly watching.

Once initial conversation dies down, Shia finally turns to Brendon and says, "Hey, freeloader. What'd you do all day?"

"Brought myself here. I'm diversifying my mooching," Brendon says, smiling. "Don't worry. I didn't hurt your baby at all on the way over."

"Good thing," Shia says, throwing a quick shot to Brendon's arm. It doesn't hurt, but Shia grabs Brendon's arm and clenches his fingers over the same spot he taps, too. Brendon does turn his head, then, and Ryan's definitely got his eyes trained on them.

His expression doesn't indicate anything, but Brendon's anxious enough that he's glad when they get out of there for the evening. He keeps the keys and climbs into the driver's seat to get them back to Shia's, barely waiting until they're on the freeway to say, "I told Ryan."

Shia's reclining his seat, saying, "--could stop at McDonald's or something, I'm not even picky," and Brendon registers that he's asking about getting dinner at the same time Shia realizes what Brendon's saying. "Wait, today? Back there -- he knew."

"Yeah, it sort of came up," Brendon says. He'd been the one to bring them to the topic, but that was beside point.

Shia talks to Brendon with the seat dropped back. "What happened?"

"He already, uh -- it kind of already came up on tour, too," Brendon says. "Not _you_ , specifically, but me."

Sighing, Shia says, "Brendon, I'm not some sensitive five-year-old. You can say it: you fucked somebody else, I get it."

"I'm just saying that's why it's already come up," Brendon says, annoyed with himself for bringing it back to that. He regrets bringing it up in the first place, and he doesn't want to revisit their first conversation about who Brendon decided to fuck.

Their ride goes quiet for a minute, and then Shia scratches his neck, saying, "I guess it's my bad for assuming we were on the same page."

Whatever the hell that means, Brendon thinks. He adjusts the rearview mirror and says, "Because you don't sound like a jealous kid at all now." He glances down to Shia, momentarily, trying not to lose sight of the road for too long. "Personally, I think it's bullshit to hold anyone to that when you're both single, especially because you said so."

"Like you didn't know how I felt?"

"You said we weren't dating! You can't get mad at me."

"I'm _not_ , I told you that." Shia bounces his knee, sitting upright quickly and bumping the cap into the side rest on the door. He swears under his breath, holding his knee, and as he calms down, he says, "I think I keep forgetting that doing this means things are different."

"What does that mean?" Brendon asks.

Shia says, "That it bothers me." He reaches up to pull off his cap and set it on his chest, relaxing again. "I didn't hook up while you were gone, okay? You left for a month, and it wasn't some unspoken loyalty thing, but I had this month -- this whole month, and like every girl I'd usually go for, it just, I don't know, didn't happen. Like complete-lack-of-trying didn't happen, because, fine, I'll man up and say that I wanted you to get back." Shia eyes the hat while he talks, holding it up to block the sun from his eyes. "Trust me, B, it's not like I want to be worked up about some other dude I don't know. But you're right, I made that call."

Yes, he did, but Brendon isn't feeling like rubbing Shia's face in it anymore. He bends his arm, leaning closer to the staring wheel and then pushing out again. He says, "Look, I didn't mention it to be an asshole. I brought it up for the Ryan part, telling him."

"Right, sorry. What did he say?"

"He asked if I was going to say something to anyone else," Brendon says, "and, I guess, like. If that's okay with you..."

Brendon trails off, raising his eyebrow and looking to Shia again when he doesn't get an immediate response. Shia's staring out of the window, upward into the sun, gnawing on his lip, the corners of his mouth pulling up.

"Shia," Brendon prompts, his mouth easing into a cautious grin already, because what the fuck. What the fuck, but, yeah, he wants the rest of his band to know. "Is it --"

"No, I'm just thinking about," Shia says, letting his seat up. "You didn't tell Ryan about last night, probably."

Brendon laughs, saying, "We didn't get into the play-by-play, sorry," but Shia's grinning faintly at him. Brendon prefers that expression.

"Not that I mind you bragging to people about how good I am in bed," Shia says, dusting off his shoulder.

"Wow, right, okay," Brendon says, pulling to a stop at the light at the end of the off-ramp. "That's how I'll open the conversation every time: 'What's up, guys? Hey, hope you don't mind, but I decided to wean myself on Shia Labeouf's di--'"

Shia kisses the corner of Brendon's mouth, and then guides Brendon into a better attempt. He touches Brendon's face. His hand retreats, resting at the top of his spine and kneading the muscles in his neck some as he back away. He leaves his hand, scratching the edge his thumb nail over Brendon's skin, and he says, "I didn't know I was gonna like you this much. That was _my_ point a few minutes ago."

"Too bad I already changed the subject," Brendon says. "Romantic comedy gesture disqualified for lateness."

"Fuck that, I was sincere," Shia says. "I kissed you right as you were talking about my dick. That's not Hugh Grant material."

"Oh, _now_ you've really sold me."

Shia pinches Brendon's muscle, making him jump. He wiggles in his seat but doesn't quite shake Shia off. Shia says, "You get on my nerves."

"Nah," Brendon says, stepping on the gas when the light switches green.

;;

The trick is making it seem sensible in Brendon's head: he's dating. He's dating this guy, an actor, a friend, Shia. He's dating Shia LaBeouf.

Brendon wills himself to grow accustomed to the constant shifting he feels lately. Acquaintances, friends, confused, undecided, complicated, and then dating, yes. That's a more comfortable word now, and Brendon doesn't think it's inaccurate, their first time tangled in tension and late night impulse while they second time they fuck happens during the day, Brendon taking off Shia's shirt and asking him to fuck him on the couch.

They visit Shia's mother, Shayna, again that evening, and Shia grabs his hand as they head inside. They're dating; this is for real. Shia holds onto Brendon's hand, and Shayna sees it. Shia kisses Brendon in his mother's living room while they're there, and she sees it. This is them; they're together, Brendon's hands sliding around Shia's middle as they kiss, and Brendon feels so relieved, so good, even just standing there. Shia kisses Brendon's forehead when Shayna starts asking them about what they want to grab for dinner.

She has them help her cook. "That's how we've always done it," Shia says, and Brendon's almost positive they've talked about that before, the fact that he and his mom have always been a team.

So the three of them cook, eat, and then Brendon and Shayna start on getting the dishes rinsed and loaded in the dishwasher while Shia goes to the bathroom. As Brendon moves plates, Shayna steps to him, stops him, and says, "Hold on, hold on, I want to really see you."

"Is there something still on my face?" Brendon asks.

"No," she says, smiling, and swipes her hand across Brendon's cheek once as if she's checking for him anyway.

Brendon's generally good with parents. They tend to find him sweet, mostly because he knows how to say please and thank you, but he is deeply glad that Shayna still likes him. She seems to survey Brendon carefully, and then says, "I tried to tell him you had the gait about you. The foxes around usually do."

"What?" Brendon says. He wonders if this is finally what Shia tried to warn him about the very first time he ever met Shayna. Shia calls it her 'angel talk', the way she spins off metaphors and sounds as if she's speaking in circles to other people but is the most honest for her. Shia swears up and down that his parents are both just trapped in the sixties, and Brendon tries to imagine them sitting down for a meal with his own family but ejects the notion once he realizes what he's doing.

To Shayna, he asks, "Should I apologize for the fox thing?"

She laughs, stepping back to tend to the dishes. "Not sly, alright? Unexpected. I think he was worried about telling me."

"Sorry?" Seriously, Brendon has gotten the feeling that Shayna's okay with him, but he doesn't know if he wants to remind her of some animal known for being sneaky. Or whatever.

She shakes her head. "He's happier when he's nervous. It hasn't happened for a while," she says and points at Brendon. "There was a good one or two, but you're on his tongue. You know? He likes talking about you."

"Yeah?"

"Absolutely," Shayna says, and when they hear the bathroom door open, Shayna lowers her volume to say. "Go ahead and keep him scared."

Brendon laughs lightly, figuring that must be a good thing to her. He'll run it back through his head later to check, but for now, she smiles at him and Brendon keeps handing over dishes.

;;

As good as the month of September is to them, Brendon has to get back to Vegas to prepare for the fall tour. October and November are reserved for the road. Things might've been simpler if he and Shia had gotten together last year, when Brendon spent a lot of time just going back and forth to the studio more than anything, but things are what they are. He doesn't want a repeat of August though, split up for too long and leaving everything about them on the backburner.

He says to Shia, "You're schedule's letting up. Do you want to come on tour with us? Just for like a week, while you have the time."

"Is the rest of your band okay with that?" Shia asks.

"Yeah," Brendon says, although he hasn't talked to them about it yet. "They will be. Why not? I want you to come."

Shia's combing his hair, looking at himself in the bathroom mirror while Brendon leans against the counter. He stops, tapping his comb against the surface and says, "I've never been on tour. Unless you count, like, traveling for promo."

"Which I don't," Brendon says. "Wait, weren't you telling me about some band you had when you were younger?"

"We weren't that good. My drumming? Not worth bragging about," Shia says, finishing his hair. He sets down the comb, grabs the t-shirt he has picked out for the day and tugs it over his head. Brendon touches Shia's stomach as he does, knuckles grazing skin, and Shia cranes forward as soon as he gets the fabric tugged down, kissing Brendon.

Brendon says, "So, you need a real tour experience. Say yes to me."

"This is how you persuade people?"

"Yeah, I just kind of tell you you're going to give in. It tends to work for me," Brendon says, grinning as Shia kisses him again. "You're going to come, trust me."

"Let me know what your band says," Shia says, and Brendon sighs. That -- alright, yeah, he should cover his bases first. Brendon isn't lying about his powers of subtle persuasion, however. He's going make sure it happens.

Shia has to drop a couple packages off at the post office, and on the way over, they stop to get smoothies. Shia goes in to order while Brendon steals one of his cigarettes, lights it, and pulls out his cell phone right outside.

Spencer answers after three rings, saying, "Ryan called this morning, and now you. It must be time for tour rehearsals."

"We don't only call each other when work shit happens," Brendon says, dragging smoke into his lungs.

"No, but you all call at the same time," Spencer says. He yawns in Brendon's and clears his throat. "Hey, what's up?"

"Not a whole lot. This -- actually, this _is_ about the road," he says, smirking as Spencer laughs. "Shut up, I just have a question. I was thinking about it, I mean, I've been in LA, staying with Shia, and you guys wouldn't hate it if he came out for a little bit, right?"

"Um," Spencer says, "I don't think so. I guess we have to coordinate and stuff, because it gets packed when we all have people at the same time. He wants to come on tour?"

"I invited him," Brendon says, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "It's less random than you're probably thinking."

"You're not trying to make up for being a parasite while you're out there?" Spencer sounds like he's smiling around the words.

Brendon picks at the buttons of his shirt, thinking, here we go again, and saying, "No, um. We're kind of dating. _Seeing_ each other -- however you want to say it."

"Oh, you're -- oh. Brendon, really?" Spencer asks, and when Brendon makes a noise of assent, Spencer makes a thoughtful humming noise. He says, "I, okay, it's just funny because that was going to be the next joke I made, except I wasn't expecting to be right."

"Yeah, well, I guess the joke's on you," Brendon says. He peeks over his shoulder. Shia's standing in front of the counter, probably waiting on the drinks to be made. "You can't be that surprised, after..."

"It's still different to hear you say it. Anyway, wow, you were asking about tour," Spencer says, and Brendon flicks his cigarette again, taking a longer pull as Spencer collects his words. "I'm good with having him around. I'm fine, if -- wait, you aren't asking if --"

Brendon cuts in to clarify, "If you're comfortable with another person on the bus."

"Right, because I was about to say: you don't need me to greenlight you dating an actor," Spencer says, "although, dude, actors. Hey, if that's what you're into..."

Brendon laughs. He says, sobering some, "But you are cool, right?"

"Yeah," Spencer says. "Yeah, man, whatever. Have you talked to Ryan?"

"He knows. You, him, and Shane, and I guess I have to catch Jon," Brendon says.

"Okay," Spencer says. "Are you still in LA right now? Ryan and I were talking about having practice at the end of the week. It might be Monday, depending on how fast Jon can get his shit together."

"Dude, I'm only a five-hour drive or a plane ticket. All you have to do is say the word." Brendon stubbs out his cigarette, mostly finished. Shia comes out of the shop and hands him his drink. "Hold on, Spence, hey," he says and turns Shia. "Spencer says come on tour. Just say yes now."

Shia raises his voice enough to say, "Oh, he used the persuasive skills on you, too, huh?"

"What can I say? He's got that face," Spencer says, Brendon switching to speakerphone in the middle of his response.

Shia says, "You can't see him."

"But I remember it so well," Spencer says, and Brendon laughs, bright and open-mouthed. "It's kind of automatic now. All I have to do is think of it."

"The brainwashing is a delicate process," Brendon says to Shia, seriously. Shia smiles, looking ahead of them, and then he pats Brendon's shoulder and points him toward a car that pulls into the parking lot. The guy in the passenger seat has his camera ready, and Brendon watches him unabashedly as the car pulls into a spot.

"Alright," Brendon says, "Spencer, we're gonna get out of here. Want me to ask Jon about practice when I talk to him?"

"Yeah, could you? Thanks."

"Sure. Later, Spence," Brendon says, ending the call. He eyes the car. "I'm glad they're coming as we're going."

"Yeah, let's peace."

Brendon hands Shia the keys, and they climb into the truck to get moving. Brendon dials Jon as they ease from the lot, the line ringing and ringing until the voicemail gets the call. Brendon considers calling back later, but instead he says, "Walker, where are you? Three things -- some quick notes for you: one, I still have the hoodie you let me wear in Auckland. If you forget to ask for it, I'm going to keep it, so it's on you to remind me. Two, it's cool with you if Shia rides on the bus with us for a like a week, isn't it? I invited him in between making out in his bed and making out in his kitchen, if that's cool. Three, dude, practice at the end of the week? Spencer says that Monday's good also, but the sooner the better. Call me. Bye."

He drops his phone in his lap, amused by the incredulous grin Shia flashes him. He says, "Really smooth there, slipping that in on the machine."

"I'm good, I know," Brendon says.

;;

What's more surprising is that Zack rings Brendon before Jon does. He says, "Thank you for making me sound like an asshole when Dan called earlier."

"What did I do?" Brendon asks.

"He was saying some shit about how much you like going to Anaheim and finding a way to bring your Disney gay on the road," Zack says. "I said, right, no, your hard-on for the Happiest Place on Earth isn't fucking new. Then he got on my case for knowing about you hooking up with some dude from a Disney show, because he just heard about it from Ronick."

"When did Dan talk to Ronick? Who _told_ Ronick?"

Zack says, "Fuck that, man, it's true? It took me a good five minutes with Dan to figure out he meant that same little dude from the Indiana Jones movie. Is that the why you got to hang in D.C. for _Transformers_?"

"Something like that," Brendon says.

"You're out with him now?"

"I'm in LA, yeah. But I want him on the bus for a few days, that was why I told the rest of my band."

"You didn't tell me."

"I was making the rounds!" Brendon says.

Zack scoffs, saying, "Don't suck up now, Urie. You could have asked me if I want something from set, at least."

"My apologies. You're right." Brendon switches ears, holding his cell to his left. "Everybody knows, huh? So much for discretion."

"Didn't you leave a message on Jon's answering machine? I think that's how Eric heard. Dan said he was at Jon's with him, and Jon just passed over the phone. What did you say?"

"Cock is natural, cock is good, not everybody does it, but everybody should," Brendon says, because if there's anyone to whom he can whatever the hell he wants, it's Zack.

Zack groans, laughing, and says, "Brendon, what the fuck. That's between you and George Michael now."

"I wouldn't fuck George Michael," Brendon says, except then he thinks about it, and younger George Michael -- that might be a different story. "Hey, not that I don't want to have a good cry with you and all, but I'm going to go, alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. I only wanted to make you feel bad," Zack says, and then they say their goodbyes.

Brendon had been taking a nap when he called. He rolls off the mattress and onto his feet, walking into the living room to find Shia. The volume on the television blasts but Shia isn't there. Brendon eventually finds him in the garage, moving things around.

"Yo, what are you doing?" Brendon asks.

"Hey, you're up." Shia tosses a bag in a corner. "My dad called earlier -- from a pay phone. Did I mention he doesn't want to give in to modern technology anymore? -- anyway, he wants to come back soon."

"Are you seriously going to put him in the garage again?"

"He likes it in here, swear to God." Shia pushes a box out of the way with his shoe, cardboard rasping along the floor. "Besides, do you want him sleeping right across the hall? I didn't expect him to come back this early in the year, because he kind of hung around until like right before you got back from Europe."

Brendon helps Shia lift and stack a couple bigger boxes, dusting his hands off when they set them down. He says, "Question. Is your Dad gonna be hurt if you leave him here right after he gets into town to come travel? Everybody's cool with you coming."

Shia stops, regarding Brendon calmly. He's hot. Brendon watches Shia eye him, savoring this face-off where he gets to check out Shia, accepting again how attracted to Shia he is. Even more, he gets to pull this guy into bed if he wants.

He really, really wants.

"I'm sure he'll live," Shia says, and Brendon nods, pleased.

"Yes. Good, yeah," he responds, tugging Shia forward by his belt loop. "Sorry, okay, now I want to get your pants open. Don't mind me," and Brendon likes the way it looks when Shia smiles, charmed.

;;

Shia has to stick around Los Angeles for _pre_ -pre-production on his next project. "The step after signing papers, but before everything really gets started," is how he explains it, but the point is that he and Brendon plan for him to come on the road into the second week of the tour instead of immediately.

"I have to rehearse, too, so I'll be in Vegas for a while," Brendon says. "Dude, if you don't at least come to Vegas for the weekend, that's like two full weeks without. How do you feel about phone sex?"

"I think it's probably hilarious," Shia says.

Brendon begs to differ. "It's all about the voice, right? Listen to me, listen to me: the _voice_ ," he says, lowering the words. He tried phone sex with Lana a couple times, but Shia definitely holds his stomach and fucking brays, laughing like Brendon isn't absolutely serious. "Okay, yeah, you need to come stay with me for the weekend."

"Why? For the good of your sex life?"

"It's not the only reason, but it is a good one," Brendon says. He's drinking a glass of water. He finishes half, dumps the rest, and then sets the glass on the table before moving closer to Shia. Brendon nudges Shia's knees together with his own and straddles his lap.

Huh. This is one they haven't tried yet. In general, they've been messing around a lot more. They don't always fuck, but Brendon's been spending an honorable amount of time tucking his hands in secret places and letting Shia do the same. He's thought back to when he first started dating Audrey occasionally, recalling the heady rush caused by simply being around someone, needing to get closer, to be in each other's space, sometimes just because you can and other times like a physical itch. Once, when they were wasted, William had talked to Brendon about he liked discovering people's more animalistic magnetism, and Brendon had found that to be like the second funniest phrase he'd ever heard in life while drowning in Jager. Later, and during times like these, Brendon thinks there might be something in the second word of it at least, to be drawn to people.

Shia agrees to come out to Vegas for the weekend, but he has to fly in a day after Brendon. He has an interview with Spin scheduled the day Brendon's supposed to meet the rest of his band for practice. Shia kisses him goodbye for five minutes in the house before they even drive the airport on Thursday, and they don't touch at all at the airport.

Friday afternoon, Shane wakes Brendon up because he's forgotten to set his alarm. Brendon takes the quickest shower possible, then hustles to practice, and turns out to be the first one there. The others show up shortly after, Jon the first one to find Brendon playing the same guitar line in varying ways, changing up tempos, and he asks, "Hey. Did you get in last night or this morning?"

"I got _here_ ten minutes ago," Brendon says, "but my flight landed late last night. Shane came and met me."

"Just you, or you and your -- guy or whatever. Did Shia come?" Jon asks, slipping his foot out of his flip-flop, rubbing his foot along the rough carpet. Brendon watches him use it to scratch his heel.

Brendon never did really talk to Jon directly about Shia, but then Jon never really called back to say anything himself. Brendon gnaws on the inside of his lip, playing the line stuck in his head one more time, then says, "Working. He's going to come out tonight."

"You're picking him up?"

"Yeah." Brendon switches guitars, gets it plugged in and says, "Are you good with him coming out with us?"

Jon's head jerks back as he says, "Yeah. Yeah, I don't care."

"Okay," Brendon says. He smiles faintly. "I keep -- I want to make sure that I run it by all you guys, you know. Although it's fucking crazy that I even have to think about making those calls. Checking to make sure nobody has a problem with my boyfriend, that's like --"

"You have a _boyfriend_ ," Jon says, voicing it the way Brendon feels it. Brendon huffs, exhaling in one swift push, and Jon holds up his hands. "Yeah, that's. I get it."

"How'd you get here?" Brendon asks, suddenly.

Jon points behind himself vaguely. "Oh, Ryan and Spencer are outside, dude. I rode with Ryan, and Spencer wanted to get a soda. They're coming."

They start practice as soon as Ryan and Spencer make their entrance. A month off is always a good call. It's been a nice few weeks for Brendon to boot, but he also remembers how much he misses performing as soon as they start rehearsing right before they get to do so for another tour. The few hours they spend in the space get dedicated to reacquainting themselves with the songs and changing sections of the arrangement for 'London Beckons.' Brendon gets out of practice around six-thirty, with plenty of time to get something to eat and then head to the airport in order to wait for Shia's plane to touch down at fifteen minutes to nine.

The good part about not being an A-list celebrity living in Los Angeles is that Brendon can take Shia's hand in the parking garage as they head up to the second level, and he doesn't really worry about what it looks like. Shia recounts his day for Brendon, telling him that it was harder to get out of LAX than usual, just one of those days. He's here now, fucking finally, and Brendon thinks about how he explained it Jon: making sure people are okay with his boyfriend coming on tour. His boyfriend. _We're dating_ , Brendon tries in his mind. _We're dating; this is my boyfriend, Shia_.

The surreal feeling doesn't disappear, but Brendon also doesn't let go. In the car, he starts the ignition, adjusting the radio station, and before he fastens his seatbelt Shia leans over to kiss Brendon's cheek. Brendon angles his face to the right to allow a quick peck, and then asks, "Are you hungry? I ate after practice, but we can stop somewhere if you're hungry."

"Mm-mm," Shia says. He scratches his chin and yawns. "I really want to crash early. Long day."

"Sounds good to me," Brendon says, and that's exactly what they do.

;;

What's easy is having Shia around. Shia says hello to Shane briefly, once they get back to the house, but they do tumble into bed at an early hour. Brendon's okay with that part, their bodies near, sharing warmth. Sometimes Shia snores softly when he sleeps on his side, and Brendon rubs circles into his skin, pushing him onto his stomach or his back gently. It's all things they're learning about each other, that Brendon's had time to figure out he enjoys, but being around the band with Shia present -- present as his _significant other_ \-- manages to thrill Brendon privately and feel awkward in his skin simultaneously.

The have practice in the morning instead of the afternoon for a change. Shia doesn't come along because he sleeps in, but he, Shane, and Haley are there when everybody wants to go to lunch once they finish. Spencer has a craving for good pasta, and they sit in a huge booth with some mammoth table between the seven of them.

"Order in my court," Ryan jokes, sitting at the head of the table once the waitress gets them an extra chair. He taps the salt shaker on the tabletop, and Jon starts wondering aloud about how often judges really have to say that.

"Why is this table so big? I can stretch my leg all the way out," Brendon says, doing exactly that. He rests his foot on Shia's knee where he sits across from Brendon, and Shia pinches him above the ankle. Brendon's knee pops up, banging into the table.

He apologizes to everyone, Shia laughing, and Ryan says, "No hanky panky during the proceedings," in what Brendon assumes is his best Government Official voice.

"Hanky panky?" Spencer says. "Who says that?"

While they talk over one another, Brendon drives his heel into Shia's thigh as hard as he can without disrupting the whole party. Shia attacks Brendon's ankle again, Brendon gritting his teeth instead of letting the pinch get a rise out of him this time, and once they get bored with trying to discreetly outdo one another, Shia keeps stroking his thumb over Brendon's ankle.

He feels like some lame self-help book to self-discovery lately. Step one: accidentally make out with your friend. Step two: deal with it. Step three: tell your friends. Step four: tell your parents, or, really, tell his parents, because Brendon's spoken to his family a number of times in last few months, and he hasn't said much about Shia. He's still trying to get used to the fact that he's had even short conversations with the few close friends he's mentioned it to because they work together, and he wants Shia to be around for parts of that.

That's the other side: wanting Shia to be around. He lives in Brendon's space for the weekend, flipping around all the time spent in Los Angeles a little, and the morning he's set to leave, Brendon drags him into the shower so that he can get in as much of this, of _them_ , in as possible.

"I'm going to see you in two weeks," Shia says.

"Stop acting like you don't want to use this excuse to have sex in the shower," Brendon says, dragging soapy fingers along the small of his back. Shia smiles into the kiss.

The time Shia isn't around passes relatively quickly. Beginning tour takes adjustment. Brendon pulls his head away from the routine of going to bed and waking up in the same places, getting reacquainted with tucking things in the corner of his bunk and sleeping carefully so that he doesn't kick anything. He does interviews, meet and greets, and performs, and during free moments afterhours, he gets to talk to Shia, trying to quell the buzzing anticipation that knots in him and makes Brendon grin at everything, even when it's not a necessary response.

And when he isn't distracted by his own anxiousness, Brendon gets jarred by the fact that people around him know he's waiting for something, for Shia. It's in the casual way Spencer mentions that he can have the extra bunk if they need it, or the easy way Keltie hands over a spoon while they're getting ice cream from some local mom-and-pop stand, saying, "I don't know if I'll still be around when your guy gets here, but you should tell him hello for me."

By the time Shia meets them on the road, Keltie has already gone back to New York for work, so it's a good thing Brendon's made that mental note to pass on her greeting. Shia gets there on a show day, right before they have soundcheck, Zack walking him in while Brendon's tuning his guitar. He's wearing sunglasses indoors but he isn't carrying any luggage, and Brendon sticks to the program and finishes singing the songs the engineer needs before jumping off the front of the stage once a tech takes his guitar and hugging Shia.

"Where's your crap?" Brendon asks, batting his hand against Shia's side.

"Already on your bus," Shia says, removing his glasses, and Brendon's tempted to kiss him hello. He's dressed comfortably, t-shirt, jeans, and a hoodie, and Brendon tries to think back to when the simple fact that Shia was present didn't cause Brendon's attentions to focus in so immediately.

"I took care of him," Zack says.

"I appreciate it," Brendon says, holding up his hand for a high-five, and then tucking them into his pockets so that he doesn't do something like grab for Shia's wrists as they head out to the parking lot and the buses.

 

**12**

Shia's never been the person along for the ride. Even with China, when she occasionally did some modeling work, her jobs lasted an hour or two at most. Once she wrapped, they could go stuff their faces with hot dogs and watch Dodgers games, and it isn't as if he would've minded being the boyfriend tagging along to support her for events, but that was never quite how it felt. This is yet another instance where Brendon's managing to push Shia out of his familiar zones and navigate his life in a slightly different way. He's really good at throwing Shia for a loop.

"I keep wanting to use the word 'freefall,'" is the way Shia had admitted it to Lorenzo three days before he left to join Panic on tour, not wasted enough to warrant quite so little finesse in how he broached the subject of dating Brendon.

Lorenzo, the perpetually noisy (or, naturally inquisitive, if you let him describe it) dude he was, had just stubbed out the joint he'd been smoking and said, "I can't even get my head around you right now. Is his dick big?"

"That's the first question you want to ask?"

"I don't know, that's what girls always want to know, isn't it?" Lorenzo said, laughing at himself, and Shia had closed his eyes against the sound, groaning.

Still, for as many moments as there are where Shia begins to wonder if one of his mother's rants about chaos and crying in the clouds might be appropriate, he sits in the lounge of the tour bus with Brendon and relaxes even as his pulse kicks into high gear.

At the show that night, Shia watches from the VIP area. He's seen the band play a couple songs before, but it's the first time he's watched an entire set. There aren't a lot of other guests in this city. Shia hasn't gotten everyone's names down in so few hours, but the guitarist from the first band's girlfriend and sister are present as well as the lighting guy's wife. He's never seen Panic's stage show, and the first chance he gets to, Shia introduces himself to the people he stands with throughout the performance as Brendon's friend, tagging along while he has time off, and afterward, Shia and Brendon spend half an hour trying to determine exactly how to lie so that they can both sleep in one bunk at least semi-comfortably.

;;

The following afternoon, Shia remembers that he isn't just the friend or boyfriend hanging out when two kids, a girl and her younger brother, ask him for an autograph. The girl has some intense eye-makeup: shadows dark around her eyes and spirals swooping down onto her cheek. Shia agrees to sign her bag when they catch him walking from the tour bus back into the venue, and Brendon has to remind him later that the makeup used to be something they did at shows and photoshoots. It was part of their whole aesthetic.

"That looks time-consuming," Shia says.

"Sometimes it really was," Brendon says, ripping open a package of sour apple rings with his teeth.

Shia steals one when he successfully tears a hole in the plastic. "It's weird to get recognized at your shows, dude. It's not about me, but I didn't want to be a douchebag."

That sentiment generally carries over any time Shia attends an event meant for someone else -- when he's there to _support_ someone else. Josh had an art thing a few months back, this group showing with some guys he'd happened to meet at a poetry slam near Fairfax, all of whom shared his affinity for gory imagery. They put together a small event, and Shia didn't have to sign too many autographs, only a couple, but both times, he felt sort of like their attention was pointed in the wrong direction. Talking to people was different, at least, because people who wanted to hold a conversation inevitably got back around to asking why he was there, how he knew Josh, and then the work itself.

There's an added displacement with Brendon. Other people stop him after the show, because he doesn't go backstage right away, and each time someone mentions that they didn't know that he enjoys Panic or is friend of theirs or some other variation, Shia thinks about how they have no idea that he's also enjoys Brendon's dick. Regularly. Being a friend or supporter of the band doesn't have to be connected to that particular activity -- it _wasn't_ at first -- but one woman mentions that she's been a fan of Panic since their demos after she says she's a big fan of Shia's, and Shia wonders what she might say if he told her the other parts. He could say, _Yeah, the lead singer gives pretty good reciprocal blowjobs, so I'm a pretty big fan of his, too_ , and it might throw her whole perspective out of wack.

He won't say anything like that, but he could. More and more crude ways to detail his relationship cross his mind, but he doesn't say a word. Shia's just very aware of his omissions -- friends with the band versus dating a member versus the scattered and unsure moments where he wonders if there could be something extra to it.

He rolls with everything as much as possible, scrawling his name on paper and t-shirts and letting people snap camera phone shots. When he meets up with the band backstage, Shia mentions that they have some enthusiastic kids into them. He doesn't usually find himself in situations where he has to interact with that many people specifically there to see him, and if a decent crowd of people managed to stop Shia when he _isn't_ the focus on the festivities, then he can't imagine what it must be like to come out and sign things as a band member consistently.

"That only happens when we're on tour or something like this though." Spencer says. "Otherwise, you know. Most of the time, we can hang out and nobody cares."

"Except for when you're Ryan," Zack says, "driving around in your Mercedes."

"And looking like a thirteen-year-old," Jon adds, "but cruising like someone twice over the hill."

"Don't they stop giving people licenses after 70?" Shia asks, plopping down on a couch. Brendon sits on the arm and Shia rubs his lower back.

"Out here?" Eric asks. "I thought it was a state-to-state thing."

He looks at Shia, but his gaze snaps left a couple times. If he's following the extension of Shia's arm, he doesn't say anything. Shia stills his hand. He leaves it where it is after a moment of indecision, because although any little bit of scrutiny gives him pause these days, making him wonder what someone is thinking and what they might say, nobody _has_ said anything.

"Oh, I don't know," Shia says. "I just heard that once. I don't remember if it was for one specific place or what."

Eventually, Brendon reaches behind himself to grab for Shia's hand until he can intertwine their fingers. Nobody says anything about that either.

;;

If being stopped at shows is interesting already, then Shia's sort of at a loss when he and Brendon are recognized together. It only happens a few times: twice while they're out getting food in the middle of a day, in that time between soundcheck and show time, and then on the only real day off they have scheduled for the week.

When the entire band's out together, Zack and Dan usually both come along. Thursday morning, Brendon and Shia take a trip on their own. They eat breakfast in some small diner, sharing a table in a corner, and when they finish, a girl and her mother stop them.

"I'm sorry," the girl's mother says. "She kept doing that thing the whole time we ate --'That's them, that's them!' -- so I thought I'd say hi for her."

"Yeah, no problem," Brendon says, reaching out to shake the mother's hand.

Her daughter hangs to the side, looking at them as if she's suddenly struck by shyness. Shia asks, "Did you guys see their show last night?"

He directs the question to the girl, who speaks up then. She steps closer to her mom, saying, "Yeah, I was in the pit. I tried to get close, but there are a lot of people, but that didn't make it less cool. It was a really good show!"

Brendon nods. "Thanks. I'm glad you had a good time, then."

"Yeah," she says, and introduces herself as Kayla. "My friend Jessica was with me. We were saying that we wished there were two days we could see."

"They're just gonna have to come play here again," Shia says.

"Jess is a big fan of you, too, Shia. She's going to hate me when I tell her about this," Kayla says. Behind her, Kayla's mother laughs to herself and does the honor of taking the picture when the camera phone comes out. They let Kayla stand between them, taking two different photos because the first captures Brendon with his eyes closed.

After they part ways, Shia drapes one arm over Brendon's shoulders and says, "So, you dudes are men in demand around here."

"Right, because she didn't also know who you were," Brendon says. "You were on a first name basis and everything."

"Meeting people on the street cracks me up because of stuff like that." Shia drums his fingers along Brendon's arm. "Being reminded that, oh, right, someone knows shit about me already. And some people are awkward about it, so then I have to pretend like I _don't_ think it's a weird situation."

"I'd at least prefer fans to something like the paparazzi."

Shia turns his head to cough once, then says, "Well, yeah. Dude, any day of the week."

He's noticed cameras on him in random places enough times that he's grateful every single moment they're not trained on him. Shia's happy about it on this tour, for instance, because Panic get a lot of attention from their fans, but they've also talked about how things are considerably different when they aren't on tour together, being in a band. Shia likes that balance in his own life -- he'd like to keep it, so it sometimes bums him out that he can't always be spontaneous in the same way he used to be, that these days there's more of chance that someone's watching.

Except for signing a few autographs and taking a picture with people who've seen his movies, however, Shia gets to enjoy a level of ordinariness the week he's on tour with Panic. He watches them perform, listening to Brendon sing, and during the hours between those performances Shia gets to kiss him, to enjoy his company, to mess around in hotel rooms and Brendon's bunk, hoping, hoping, hoping, that they've been carefully quiet or quick enough that no one sees or hears something they shouldn't.

"Because I'm gonna want your friends to invite me back," Shia says while Brendon lies between his legs one morning.

Brendon says, "They'd get over it. I've gotten over some of the stuff I've seen."

"But can everybody bounce back like you?"

"Well," Brendon says, "sadly, there's a lot about me people wish they could imitate and can't."

"Not that you're full of yourself or anything," Shia says, smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Never." He presses his thumb to the edge of Shia's mouth, like he's imprinting the curve of his amusement, and then wipes his hand on Shia's collarbone. He says, "That's cool that you want to do this again. I'm glad."

;;

Relaxation. That's what happens. Brendon invites Shia on tour, and Shia spends the week unwinding. They get a cab to pick him up from the hotel where they stay Saturday night. Shia opts to leave in the middle of the night instead of right after their show to catch a red-eye. Their tour manager sets bus call for way too early, up and out by 6am, so Shia manages three good hours of sleep, hands and body greedier than he should be to squeeze in as much time with Brendon as he can before he sets off to the airport at four in the morning.

Standing in the hotel hallway before he goes, Brendon rubs his hands hard over his eyes, groggy. His hair is mussed and Shia recalls a Washington, D.C. lobby. He remembers farewells that feel more important than they probably were, thinking back. For four months now, Shia's been in knots, but the tightening brings its own sort of comfort, too, Shia's pretty sure.

He kisses Brendon goodbye under yellowing lights. Brendon has one hand on the door knob and the other scratching at the strap of Shia's bag, letting Shia coax him closer with hands at Brendon's waist, and around them, everything is comfortably silent.

"Take care of yourself," Shia says, sort of lamely. Brendon's still too familiar with having just been asleep to speak, lifting a hand to wave as Shia steps back. "I'll call you."

He laughs and messes up Brendon's hair more when Brendon just nods, and then he doesn't hear Brendon close the door to his room until Shia's halfway down the hall.

Landing in Los Angeles later that afternoon, Shia calls Josh to let him know he's on the ground, and then his manager John, and then his father to make sure all the appropriate parties knows he's back in his hometown. His dad doesn't answer, which Shia expects, but he leaves a message on his own voicemail, because sometimes he at least bothers to check those.

Josh meets him in the parking lot. He's smoking a cigarette, propped against his car. He holds the pack out for Shia, sharing the wealth, and they ride out of LAX and back to Burbank with the windows rolled down instead of using the air-conditioning. They hit traffic on the 405, because it's LA, and Josh says, "Welcome back to the madness, dude. I hate driving here. How was the road?"

"Really good," Shia says, flicking what's left of his cigarette out of the window. "I mean, you're on one long road trip. I've looked at a lot of asphalt in the past few days, but then there are shows at night."

"They play well?" Josh asks.

Shia says yes. He says, "They're strong, dude. Spencer, their drummer -- have you met him? No, right? Anyway, he's better than I'll ever fucking be."

"That's because you suck."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, asshole."

"Yeah, definitely," Josh says, laughing. "Did you say hi to Brendon for me? That I'm gonna sell that toilet seat they painted?"

"No, you're not, and no, I didn't," Shia says. "Because you don't deserve to have messages passed on, dissing me like that."

"I didn't diss you until right now. You had a whole week."

"I'm clairvoyant, motherfucker. I knew you'd be a bastard."

"No, you got wrapped up in getting laid, I got you," Josh says, and Shia laughs, going for another cigarette despite Josh's protests.

He hasn't told Josh explicitly about him and Brendon, but he hasn't tried to make their interaction seem like anything other than what was happening either. The only person he's really said it to straight is his mother, but the best way to handle his friends has been to just do what the hell he wants and let them get that that's just how things would be from then on.

"Can you blame me?" Shia asks, settling in his seat, slipping down.

"Probably," Josh says, but Shia smirks around his smoke and doesn't feel bad about it.

;;

Shia forgets to call Teresa to let her know that he's in town again. Josh drops him off, and then he gets distracted because his father's turned his kitchen into some kind of garage extension, playing auto shop in both. Shia comes home to oil smeared on his counter.

"Dad, what the fuck?" Shia asks, and his father goes into an immediate spiel about how Shia had wanted to make sure the motorcycle he purchased was top of the line, hadn't he?

"I'm in the middle of improvements," he says, waving around a monkey wrench.

"That doesn't mean take it part in my house, though."

It takes them a couple hours to get everything cleaned up and for Shia to remember that he shouldn't get into arguments with his dad, because they're the same person, and so they can go at it forever. He ends it by announcing that he's hungry, and he's leaving it up to his Dad to order something or cook something, because he's traveled all day in addition to soaping down his kitchen.

"You want sausage?" his dad asks.

"Whatever," Shia says. "I'm going to make a phone call."

He relocates to call Brendon, sitting in his his bedroom but not shutting the door. Brendon doesn't answer, but he calls Shia right back and apologizes.

"I couldn't find my phone," he says. "It got buried in my bunk."

"It's cool. I meant to call earlier, but my dad, man. I love the dude, but he's a mess," Shia says, and he tells Brendon about his flight, about coming home. Brendon hums in the right places, listening.

He says, "You should come back."

"I'm tempted," says Shia. He finds that he's the good brand of surprised to realize he's pretty serious. He thinks he kind of misses being around Brendon already. "When do you get off tour again?"

"So long from now," Brendon says. "Shia, _so_ long. That's why you need to come spend some more time in my bunk."

"I don't think I've got it quite yet exactly how long from now, B, can you repeat that?" Shia asks, laughing. Brendon's over-dramatizing, and Shia jokes, but he also suspects gets where Brendon's coming from on this one.

"Listen, for real --" Brendon says, and as he speaks, a beep breaks the flow of his words in Shia's ear.

Shia says, "Oh, shit, that's probably Teresa on the other line. I forgot I didn't call my agent, dude."

"You want to call me back?"

"Nah, she'll call again," Shia says, lying back. "Or I'll call her later, it doesn't matter that much. It's not like it's urgent."

;;

Shia doesn't exactly discover that he's wrong about that later so much as he misjudged slightly -- somewhat. When he does finally talk to Teresa the next morning, Shia learns that the news is at least something he probably should have heard about the night before.

He takes a shower late, close to lunchtime, and when he gets out his dad says that his phone rang repeatedly. He didn't bother to answer it though. Shia isn't surprised. His Dad figures that most of the calls are for Shia anyway, so why waste valuable moments he could spend being creative when the answering machine does a perfectly fine job of getting messages exactly the way people want them delivered.

Shia hasn't his dad act as his go-between for business purposes in years anyway, so it works out alright.

He calls Teresa's cell instead of her office line. She answers on the second ring, and Shia says, "Sorry, I was in the shower."

"Have you been in there for the past twelve hours?" she asks, and the way her words sound tighter than usual should be the first warning. "Where've you been?"

"What's wrong? Shia asks. "I flew into town yesterday. Getting readjusted -- Teresa, what's up?"

"So John hasn't told you about it yet?"

" _You_ could," Shia says, because it irks him when there's something people won't spit out.

Teresa pauses a moment, and Shia hears some clicking in the background, like she's typing fast. She eventually says, "Okay, get -- find your laptop and check your email."

 

**13**

Another one of Brendon's least favorite things in the world is having someone or something interrupt a good nap. It takes some work for him to really sink into really satisfying, deep sleep. So his cellphone ringing incessantly until he bites the bullet and opens his eyes doesn't please Brendon at all. Whoever's trying to get in touch with him is a persistent fucker though, and he figures, fine, fuck it, he should at least answer to make sure Ryan hasn't gotten into another situation where security won't let him upstairs because they think some drunk child has wandered into places he shouldn't be again.

"What?" Brendon grunts.

His phone says, "Why is Perez blaming me for Shia Labeouf's gay tendencies but showing me a picture of you?"

The fact that Brendon's talking to Pete clicks a beat late. That Pete is saying something about Shia slides into place even later, and then Brendon scrambles to sit tall.

Again, he says, "What?"

"My email alerts, man. Are you sleeping?"

This couldn't be a more inconvenient time for Brendon to have this conversation. He blinks three times, breathes in through his nose and asks, "What are you talking about?"

"You are sleeping," Pete says. "Wake the fuck up, dude, there's shit about you on the internet."

What throws Brendon's entire thought process here is how bemused Pete seems. That can't be right. He can't actually be reading what it sounds like he's reading and remain this nonchalant about it.

"Can you -- what does it say?"

"Typical Perez bullshit. They drew on your picture," Pete says.

"Fuck, fuck," Brendon says, rolling off the bed and losing his footing. He's a mess, trying to stand up. He stumbles, and then goes frozen in the middle of the floor, rigid and staring down at the carpet.

Pete chuckles, literally chuckles, saying, "I mean, that's fucked up that you didn't tell me --"

"I was going to, I -- I didn't think it would be anything."

"--hold on, wait, wait," Pete says, dropping the mirth, and something in Brendon's stomach constricts as he realizes that, oh. _Oh_ , shit.

"Pete."

"You mean Perez is right?" Pete's genuinely curious now. He's curious and possibly more confused than when Brendon first answered. Brendon cracks his knuckles.

He says, "I only just told the other guys. We haven't been. It hasn't been that long."

Pete's quiet on the other end. He curses under his breath, but it doesn't sound like it's directed at Brendon. It's still unnerving, and Brendon dislikes the silence in people more than when they're yelling or panicked. He can't determine what silence _means_ , and it's not that he thinks Pete's angry, but he wants him to hurry up and _speak_.

Pete says, more serious, "Does Perez know he's right?"

"He shouldn't," Brendon says. There's no way. What could he know? It's not like anybody could have anything. Brendon's given out information on a need-to-know basis, other than his band right now, he just hasn't thought of many people that need to know, but apparently it's on the fucking internet anyway. "I don't know."

"Okay," Pete says, preoccupied. He says, "okay, okay, let me call you back," and then disconnects before Brendon can voice a goodbye.

Brendon drops his phone on the bed and wishes he still felt like sleeping.

;;

The first lines of the short blurb begin: _Shia Labeouf's following Lindsay Lohan's lead by sticking to his own kind. Nobody's surprised that Pete Wentz is somehow involved. Fans have spotted the man banned from Walgreens on tour with Pete's pet band, Panic at the Disco. Shia and lead singer Brendon Urie have been close lately, and sources reveal exclusively to Perez-Hilton.com that it might be exactly what you think!_

It's not as bad as Brendon expects, overall. He tells Jon first, mostly because Jon's the one who has a laptop open, hanging out in the room he's sharing with Ryan. They read the post together, quiet, and Brendon keeps looking at photo of them together in the airport in New York a few weeks prior.

"Wow," Jon says, and Brendon says, "Shit."

Both responses sum up the weight of the problem in a pretty concise manner. Brendon has an unfortunate suspicion that this will ruin his day.

He finds Spencer and Ryan and breaks the news to them by saying, "So, Pete called me and it's looking like I'm -- me and Shia -- there's stuff online."

This is probably something they'll need to discuss, or -- or something. Brendon has no idea what he's supposed to do. He hasn't even talked to Shia yet, and other than Pete, no one's called him yet. Maybe it's not anything.

"What did Pete say?" Spencer asks, and Brendon wonders if they're going to handle this by not bothering to ask each other how they feel about it. That approach works for him, he thinks. They could run with that strategy.

Brendon says, "He didn't know," and pushes a hand into his hair. He tugs, wound up. "He said he'd call back."

"We should probably tell Zack," Ryan says. "Just in case someone wants to ask about it or, I don't know. You don't have to be bothered."

"Yeah." That's a good idea. He needs to find out if Shia's seen or heard about the post at least. He doesn't want to do anything he needs. He says, "Alright, yeah, I'll tell him."

;;

Brendon's phone stays suspiciously quiet for a good forty minutes before calls start coming in all at once. He misses a few while he's talking to Pete again, who has Bob McLynn on the line like some sort of consult. Pete's saying to Bob, "No, no, but I wanted to figure out if there were really sources. I think Perez is full of shit more than half the time."

"But Brendon said that the band knows. There are people around him that know what's going on," Bob says, and Brendon doesn't want to be a part of this. He doesn't want them _talking_ about it, fisting his hand in his t-shirt and wishing harder than ever that he could blink and wake up from his nap with everything coasting along.

As far as he knows, there's been no explosion of media, but it's this -- the fact that people around him have to dissect his personal business more than has ever mattered that makes Brendon wants to climb walls. He's so uncomfortable, teetering on the edge of an emotion he can't entirely comprehend and breathing too carefully, like the floor might fall out any second.

"Just the band and then Eric, Zack and Dan?" Pete asks, and Brendon realizes that they're asking him.

"And Shane, yeah," he says. He's queasy.

"Bob, that's only core people," Pete says. His voice comes across sharper, more intense, and Brendon doesn't get to witness Pete focused on a business matter in this way very often, especially not in regards to him specifically.

Bob says, "We'll research it. You know more about that website than I do, so if you say it's bullshit, then..."

"It's just fucking tacky," Pete says. "If Brendon wants people in his business, then he'll -- "

"I don't," Brendon interjects, absolutely positive about it as soon as he says something. "If this went away. Okay, I know, who fucking says that? But if this disappeared, then I would be -- I mean, I haven't even talked to Shia yet."

"His agent and manager have called already," Bob says.

"Were they, you know," Brendon says, making vague gestures that neither Pete nor Bob can see. "Was it bad?"

"Bad how?" Pete says, indignant. "What, like they're going to be mad at anyone other than the tabloids? No, no way."

Bob says, less riled, "Both sides are putting together how we want to respond. If we respond at all. We didn't know about anything. It's not like there's a plan in place."

"Sorry," Brendon says.

"Don't fucking apologize," Pete says.

Bob clears his throat. He breathes out, saying, "You should probably call Shia and ask him what's happening on his end. Let us know what you guys are thinking."

"Alright." Brendon digs the pads of his fingers into his left eye, inhaling. "Okay, shit, alright. Let me call you back."

He gets off the phone with Bob and Pete and hits speed dial for Shia. What an awesome afternoon, he thinks. Talking party line style with people he works with about his personal relationship, great. Either someone they know is a loudmouth or assholes on the internet are full of it, but neither scenario allows for less frustrating results. Brendon's annoyed.

He gets Shia's voicemail three times, and on the fourth, Shia answers, saying, "B, fuck, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry; I've been on the phone with Teresa and John all day."

"Sort of the same over here," Brendon says. "I would've called sooner."

"They keep asking me what I want to do," Shia says. "My publicist, Megan, she talked to me this morning and says it's something that could blow over. Seventy-five percent of rumors are flashes in the pan and nobody really tries to riff on it."

"But this is different," Brendon says. This is true, which makes it more complicated, because truth also indicates that there's something they can lose. "What do you want to happen?"

Shia sighs, groaning. He says, "Man, I'm so tired of that question. I can't think about it anymore. I've heard so many possible scenarios, B, I don't even care."

"You care," Brendon says. He knows that he's more than a little concerned. "There are other people involved or whatever. It's not just me; I have the whole band."

"I know. John and Teresa had to cover the idealist bases and the practical shit with me. Obviously, it would be easiest if I wasn't happily fucking a guy in a band," Shia says, which makes Brendon flinch.

He says, "Does that mean..."

"It doesn't mean anything," Shia says. "We talked about stuff and everything. I'm over serious meetings for today and weighing the options, I really am, because I care about you. As inconvenient as that is for whoever the fuck else, alright? I want it to be us. You have to tell me what you want to do, but I'm -- really, it's what you want, because that's the only part I've got down so far."

"I like us. I want us, too," Brendon says, pausing to let that revelation soak in. He wants this, and Shia wants it, and that's overwhelming. That's the most important fact here. Everything else is based on that, and Brendon's mind swings like a pendulum, flipping from fear to excitement to nervousness and ticking steadily toward something bigger, consuming.

"Good," Shia says, exhaling audibly. "That's. Fuck, that's good."

Brendon lets a smile conquer his face briefly, then sobers. "I think that's why I don't want to say anything."

"Yeah," Shia says. "I mean, I never planned to say anything like _that_. I get it, responsibility. I don't even know if I'd -- that's so fucking huge to me, I can't fathom it yet."

"But responding to the rumor at all," Brendon says. "There's still that."

"You either deny it and lie, or you don't say anything, and -- "

"I don't want to lie," Brendon says. He knows that much. "But I haven't even said anything to my parents, and they can't find out from anywhere. I don't want to lie and then turn around and tell my mom otherwise."

"Yeah, sure. That makes sense," Shia says, and then laughs. "Okay, Brendon. So we don't say anything, alright. That's -- that's so fine with me, so, hold on -- back up. Can we go back to the part of this discussion where you want me? That was a good part."

"Yeah, yeah, get over it. Stop flattering yourself," Brendon says, laughing too, stuttered breaths pushing a bright sound from his chest.

;;

Pete contacts Brendon again to let him know that the only thing he's found as far as any supposed sources for a gossip post is a fan post made in a fan-run celebrity news community. Pete keeps up with sites like OhNoTheyDidnt, because he's a masochist, even if _he_ claims it's his job to keep his finger on the pulse of pop culture.

"I'm also kind of vain," Pete adds. "They put up things with me sometimes."

He's taken some time to calm down about Brendon's problem, thanks to Ashlee, who informed he that she was too pregnant to put up with his irate and indignant shit. Irate at the fact that Perez was going through another douchebag period in their semi-friendly relationship and indignant because Brendon hadn't mentioned anything to him directly. Not that he would have expected Brendon to come rushing over to spill his personal business, but sometimes being left out can still sting.

"Basically I was whining, and she told me to shut the hell up," is how Pete tells it. "She's no nonsense lately, because she's ready to pop any second. She's tired of being pregnant; it's given her a shorter fuse."

"That'll change soon," Brendon says, as if he really knows.

"Change, change, change," Pete mumbles, and then, "But back to your thing. Let's not talk about me."

Pete explains that he'd seen a number of posts of the gossip community, but he'd missed the mention of Brendon from an entry in recent days, because the leading picture on the post was of Shia. There had been a fan post from a girl who'd stopped Shia for a picture while he was on the road with Panic. The second picture she'd put up, the one not visible unless Pete clicked into the post wasn't even a shot of Brendon and Shia together, it was just her pictures with Shia.

"Does she mention me at all or only the band?" Brendon asks.

Pete says, "She does say that she saw you two hanging out, but I really think Perez was all noisy speculation. The comments in the post -- I don't know. These kids are always complaining that he steals shit from them in here, so it's probably not anything."

"That's nice," Brendon says, honestly relieved. "Thanks, Pete."

"Yeah, man."

"We decided we don't want to talk about it at all, with the press," Brendon says. "It's one blog."

"That's cool. Whatever you say goes right now, dude," Pete says, and Brendon breathes with less effort.

He can handle this. After talking to Shia and Pete, Brendon manages to chill out and go with it. He doesn't want his business out there for people to pick apart, and maybe that won't be the case after all. He doesn't have to stress about the kind of stuff Shia worries about or Pete warned him about. Thank goodness.

It allows Brendon a lot more confidence when the band has gotten back on the bus, off to a new city. They're watching TV in the front lounge, and Brendon comes in to grab a red bull. Popping the cap open, it suddenly seems not only necessary but easier than he anticipates to speak up.

He tells them, "We're not saying anything. We don't want to draw attention, Shia and me, so we're not saying anything."

"Really?" Spencer asks, looking away from the television. Ryan, Jon, and Shane's attention all come second. Jon pauses whatever's on the television.

"We don't want to deny it. Be _deceiving_ ," Brendon explains, dragging out the word 'deceiving' like it's completely ridiculous. "But not doing that is more complicated. We don't want to deal with how it could reflect on his work, and I don't want that to be, you know, that's not the point of this band, and I sure as fuck don't want it to be."

"You're so noble," Jon says, making dreamy eyes at Brendon. "I love when you think about my welfare, you hero."

Brendon flips Jon off, and it's like every day. It's whatever. He says, "I just wanted you to know, loser."

"Thanks," Ryan says, scratching his neck. "We're watching _Volver_. Have you seen it?"

"There are subtitles," Jon says with a frown, because he's always objected to having to read his movies instead of watching them.

"Nope." Brendon catches Penélope Cruz onscreen, though, and that interests him. He sits down next to Shane, who reaches over and kneads the muscles in Brendon's shoulder until Brendon shrugs him off and looks over. "What?"

"You good?" he asks.

"I'm amazing," Brendon says, voice lower because the movie's playing again, but he shows Shane teeth when he smiles to let him know that he means it.

 

**Epilogue**

Shia runs late getting to the venue. He finishes checking his email to make sure he doesn't miss anything pressing from John or Teresa. His publicist has been copying him on all the paparazzi pictures she gets so that he knows exactly what people catch and what they don't and on the opposite end of the spectrum, his mother breaks up her constant stream of chain letter forwards with random Google alerts about Panic at the Disco. Shia marks everything read and makes a mental note to come back to finish looking at it later.

Radio shows are always packed. He picks up Lorenzo on the way, and they speed to the arena. The backstage area has fallen victim to the same amount of commotion happening everywhere else in the building. By the time Shia locates the dressing room where Panic's been tucked and gets to Zack, the band has already headed for the stage.

"Am I missing them?" Shia asks, trying to listen closely to the music muffled by the walls.

"No, they're on deck, waiting for this last song to finish. I'm about to go back there again."

Zack has his policies about people on stage or even standing sidelines for Panic's set, but Shia puts on his most charming face and asks if he can come with him anyway. He says, "I won't stay, man. Just let me sneak in on them for a second."

"Shia," Zack says, but he relents on the condition that Lorenzo remains in the dressing room. Lorenzo doesn't mind because that's where all the finger foods are, and Shia says he'll be right back.

They step out of the main corridor and into the darkness of the arena. Shia can hear the crowd cheering under the reverb of guitars coming out of the loudspeakers, and it isn't until he's almost right on them that he hears Spencer laugh and Brendon say, "If I break during the song, I'm blaming you. Blaming you and giving you a wedgie.

"What kind of threat is that?" Shia asks, and Brendon spins around, eyes wide.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he asks, disbelieving.

Shia shrugs, giving high-fives to Jon and Spencer. Ryan pulls his guitar strap over his head and waves. Shia says, "Eh, I was in the area. Nice to see you too."

"Aren't you supposed to be in New York?" Brendon asks, punching him in the shoulder.

"Yeah," Shia says. Brendon knows that very well, because they'd had a conversation about how shitty it was that Panic was flying back west at the same time Shia needed to head east for a meeting with a producer. "Change of plans. He rescheduled for next week."

"You should've called me!" Brendon's grinning suddenly, and it's too dark for Shia to get the full force of it, but even this shaded version is enough to do him right.

"It wouldn't have been a surprise if I called you." Shia doesn't kiss him, but he wants to. Later.

Brendon shakes his head, outdone. Jon asks, "So, you're going to watch the set?"

"Yeah, yeah, my friend Lorenzo came with me. We're gonna be around."

"Cool."

"How are you _here_?" Brendon asks, harping. Shia knows how he feels. They haven't seen each other in almost two weeks, and it was supposed to be longer, but now they have a few days before they're separated until the holidays.

Shia touches Brendon's chin, bumping him to get Brendon to close his mouth as he says, "Pick up your jaw, kid. Flies'll get in."

The band on stage finishes. Shia hadn't taken the time to look at the line-up, and he doesn't recognize their final song at all. They come offstage once the lights go out, and then setup between them and Panic passes more quickly than Shia expects. He steps aside when they take the stage, standing by an amp stack, and Zack doesn't ask him to leave right away.

The roar of the crowd swells when Brendon calls out, "What's up, Los Angeles!" after the first two songs.

"Wow," Ryan says. "That was a good reaction."

"Yeah," Jon says. "They told us not to expect a lot tonight, but that was a good welcome -- warm. Nicely done."

" _I_ knew you wouldn't disappoint," Brendon says. "I have faith in LA these days."

"Well, you spend a lot of time out here now," Ryan says.

Brendon nods. "It's true. I've been getting a feel for the pulse of the city, hanging out."

"You really bought a pass so you could spend all your time at Disneyland," Jon says.

Brendon laughs. His head tilts back a little as he says, "Something like that, yeah," and Shia can't see his face from this angle, but he can guess at the smile.


End file.
